On What Wings (Dare He Aspire) [2/2]
Title: On What Wings (Dare He Aspire) [2/2]
Wordcount: ~2,000
Pairing/Characters: Chekov/Sulu, Uhura/Spock (onesided), Kirk/Spock, Scotty, Bones, Chapel, Rand
Rating: PG-13.
Disclaimer: I don't own them!
Summary: ...It's a Circus!AU, set in the late 80s (around the fall of the Soviet Union) in Arizona.
Note: Part one of (I think) two. Been kicking around in my head for months, so. Title from The Tiger by William Blake.
After that, he tags along with Nyota whenever she will let him, closing up the store a little early so that he can catch the last rays of the sun on the horizon. Sometimes she shows him around, or they hang out against the trailers, smoking her cigarettes while she vents about the long-fingered juggler (who, he discovers, is her tragic, oblivious love).
"Just tell him," he says, and she laughs a full, joyful laugh. "No," she says, and shakes her head, eyes upward to the darkening sky. "No, Pasha, it is better as it is. I would rather have sad, longing dreams than no dreams at all."
Most often, though, Hikaru will come out and meet him just as Nyota slips inside, leaving him holding the end of the cigarette. Sometimes he will take it before Pavel even has a chance to take a drag, cool, strong fingers brushing across Pavel's knuckles. Pavel will smile at him and turn away so that he doesn't have to watch Hikaru put the butt of the cig to his lips, doesn't have to watch him roll the smoke in his mouth like there is something to it, something more than bitter air and tinted illusion.
He releases it, and when he does he's always smiling, like the smoke carries away his stress with it. He smiles at Pavel, especially, like he's sharing something secret and silent. His dark eyes crinkle at the corners, and Pavel aches.
Tonight he comes out of the tent smiling, though, and steals the cig directly from Pavel's lips, standing close. He tucks it between his own and then grabs Pavel by the wrist, pulling him into the tent.
Breathless for a moment, Pavel finally recovers his wits enough to stutter out, "Hikaru, what - where are we - "
"Shh!" Hikaru put two quick fingers to Pavel's lips, and Pavel closes his eyes with the effort not to kiss them. "Silence, Pasha," Hikaru says, and the blood rushes to Pavel's cheeks at the nickname. He is tugged forward, and he goes, eyes fluttering open to see -
The great lion, prowling around the center ring. Its shoulders move with silken grace, tail lashing around and around, belying its paws' slow pad. Its eyes are fixed on the figure in the center of the ring - the ringmaster, Kirk, dressed in his long, flared coat and high black boots. He looks tiny, next to the great cat, and Pavel realizes with a start that he is bare-handed - he has no whip, no prod, not even a long stick or switch.
"Is he a madman?" He breathes in horror, close to Hikaru's ear, and Hikaru flicks dark eyes to his. "Who isn't, in this place?" He asks, and grins, a sly, shining thing. It has little curls at the edges, hooks that pluck low and hot in Pavel's stomach.
Pavel takes in a long breath, releases it to the dark corners of the tent. When he turns his eyes again to the ring, the lion has lowered its head to James Tiberius Kirk, great forepaws stretched out in deference. The ringmaster glows in the dimness of the work lights, tawnier almost than his beast.
A shadow detaches itself from the rest, approaching Kirk. It resolves itself into the pale juggler - Spock, he is called ("Why Spock?" He asks Nyota, later, and she folds her lips in the sad way she does when he is mentioned, and then says, "Why Pavel?") - and he is ghosting long hands across Kirk's shoulders.
Kirk turns, not stepping away, and they lean in close, breathing into one another's space, voices low and warm.
Pavel shivers as Hikaru wraps a warm hand around his shoulder and leads him away.
*
He makes enough money to buy a bicycle, and then he is there every night rather than very few. The ride into the desert is long, if flat, and often he has sweat pouring down his back when he arrives. The summer is lengthening again - compared to Russia, it is always summer, here, but now the locals are beginning to agree.
Everything is busy, at the circus - people rushing about everywhere. Janice is sitting by one of the trailers, using its headlights to see as she fixes up the paint on a sign. Nyota walks by pushing a rack of costumes that sparkle and shine in the dusk. Finally, Scotty notices him from where he was sitting, doing something complicated with the insides of an ancient, rusted ticket-machine.
"Hey, Chekov," he says, and gestures Pavel over with a screwdriver. "So long as you're around, you might as well lend a hand. "
Pavel does, holding the flashlight for him and pointing out where the wire is chewed through. They're a still point in a sea of movement, people rushing about everywhere. He sees Hikaru slide past once or twice, itches to go after him, but Scotty growls at him to keep his hands steady.
"You are preparing to open the show?" He asks Scotty, as the drummer dusts off his hands and replaces the panel on the back of the machine. Scotty nods. "Aye. This Sunday we open the doors to the gawking public. Gotta make sure we look our best."
Pavel nodded. "I will help," he says seriously, and Scotty grins at him. "Thanks, lad." He nodded to his left. "I think Sulu's over with the beasts, if you wanna go help him. Bring the broom."
Pavel does, casting Scotty a grateful look. Scotty watches him go with twinkling eyes.
Broom slung over his shoulders, he slips into the enclosure where the cages and pens are. The lion is asleep, head on its crossed paws like an enormous dog. The horses blows puffs of hot air from their nostrils at him. "No carrots, sorry," he laughs, and they eye him with disdain.
Hikaru is nowhere to be seen, but his discarded shirt is lying in a heap by the fence and Pavel decides to wait. He begins to sweep the hay and dust off the ground, although it is more like sweeping dust off of dust. He ignores the shirt, trying not to imagine Hikaru without it, like the day he first saw him, all coiled strength, sweat tracing his supple muscles. He raises the broom and awkwardly imitates those moves of the sword dance that he can remember (which is most of them - it is a well-worn memory). The broom is not balanced right and he feels off-center and strange. He swings it behind him, intending to bring it up and around and above his head in a majestic sweep.
Something catches the broom, behind him, and a low, familiar chuckle stops him in his tracks. He spins, still holding onto the broom, to find Hikaru grinning at him. "No, no, Pasha," he says, and then he's adjusting Pavel's hands with gentle fingers, sliding his hands down the smooth wood to here and there. He steps around Pavel, and then there is a hand at the base of his spine, pushing forward, and another on his chest, pulling back, and Pavel curves his spine, almost afraid to breathe as the hands slide, slow and soft, to his arms. "Swing," Hikaru murmurs in his ear, and Pavel swallows and does so. Hikaru's hands on his shoulders guide the path of his arms, and the broom feels much less awkward now. He thrusts forward with it, releases it with one hand, and turns with a swing, cutting a long vertical circle in the air next to him.
Hikaru has not moved away, and Pavel freezes, chest to chest with him, the momentum of the broom twisting his hand awkwardly. He drops it, and it clatters, hits the dust, brush and then pole, thumpthump. Thumpthump. His eyes are glued to Hikaru's face and god, they are so close, he can feel Hikaru radiating heat.
Hikaru raises a hand, traces it up the side of Pavel's face, and Pavel's eyelids flutter. He lets himself melt into the touch a little, and he thinks, just for a moment, that he sees something like longing in Hikaru's eyes.
And then Hikaru's hand moves up to his curls, tugging on them playfully. "We'll make a dancer of you yet, Pasha," he says, and steps away.
Pavel rides home hard, that night, arriving sweaty and breathing short and sharp. His mother stops him as he flees to his section of the trailer.
"I am worried about you," she says. "Always away at that circus. It is not healthy, Pasha. Your father died in the ring, and yet you want to follow him!"
He shushes her, soothing. "It is fine, mother. The circus here is...nothing like those at home." He forces a smile. "I will show you! They open on Sunday, you should come with me."
"Come with you? How? I cannot fit on your tiny bike, Pasha!"
Pavel thinks for a moment. "I will get the jeep from Hikaru. Or he will drive us, earlier, and I can introduce you to everyone."
His mother immediately relaxes. Hikaru had won her over entirely one of the nights he'd driven Pavel home, charming her with sweet words and winning smiles. "He will keep you safe," she says, half a question. "He will not let anything happen."
He nods, and slips away to his bed. He fists a hand against his stomach, drags the other across his eyes. He will not let anything happen.
**
He waits backstage during the first show, feeling like a ghost among the dust and feathers and glitter that littered the "wings" of the ring. He can hear Scotty's steady drumbeat, and closes his eyes, imagining Sulu spinning high above the ground, strong, perfect hands catching the bar, clap-clap, creating his own rhythm.
His mother had loved Scotty, hated Nyota. She'd blushed at being introduced to Kirk, and made eyes of her own at Spock. And now she is sitting out there, transfixed, no doubt, by the beauty in front of her.
He could be out there, too, but Nyota had asked him to stay here, help them from their costumes when they needed it, and he is glad of the chance. The circus feels like it is his, his place, and he does not wish to sit among the people he is forced to share it with.
When the curtain opens he catches a glimpse of Spock, hands like the wings of a hummingbird, seemingly surrounded by a thousand flying balls of every color of the rainbow. The crowd roars and claps and screams, and then Nyota snaps her fingers in his face and he hurries to unzip her costume.
She's silent as she strips, and he understands that. He's been there - almost. He's performed on small stages, juggling and acrobatics mostly. He's come close to the sort of focus she has - bright-eyed and grinning but not ready to break the hold the lights and the audience have on her, because she's not done. She's not lazy, laconic Nyota yet - she's the Silk Queen, spinning her spiderweb of illusion above the crowd.
She is beautiful, all long, arched spine and bare feet, and he wishes for a single moment that he cared. It would be easier, perhaps, to long for a woman.
She darts back out into the noise, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
***
After the show, she finds him for a cigarette, and quirks an eyebrow. "It was amazing," he says, and then grins, "From what I saw from the back. "
"Of course it was," she said. "We're a circus."
"We're a circus," he agrees.
She looks at him sideways like a bird, a little startled and a little sad. She opens her mouth to speak, but the flap opens and Hikaru's laugh draws Pavel's eyes.
Sulu is leading his mother from the tent, grinning at her, and she's beaming, happier than he's seen her in a long time. Something in him clenches tight, and he stands tall, rigid.
Hikaru looks up. His eyes slide off Pavel's face, his smile fading a little. "Come on, I'll take you two home."
Pavel bites his lips. "You go on," he says. "I'll take my bicycle."
Hikaru frowns, but doesn't say anything. Pavel's mother, however, immediately objects. "Don't be ridiculous, Pasha. It was a beautiful thing, the circus, but you cannot become dependent on it. Hikaru was just telling me how they leave soon - move on West with the wind."
Pavel gulps in the night air, turns accusing eyes on Nyota because he can't look at Hikaru. The sadness in her face intensifies. "I am sorry, Pasha, that we did not tell you. But...it can't be that unexpected. We are a circus."
He takes the cigarette from her. "You are a circus," he says, and breathes in bitterness.
"Pavel!" His mother says sharply. "Are you smoking?"
Pavel looks at her, looks at Hikaru, standing still and silent next to her, and releases a long breath. "I will take my bicycle," he repeats, and slides into the darkness of the desert.
He rides in long, sweeping circles, burning off the nervous energy making his limbs shake. He can feel it building behind his eyes, at the hollow of his throat. If he stops, he will cry.
When the sun peeks over the horizon he drops, limbs like lead, onto the sand. The sky lightens above him, and he thinks, beautiful.
He leaves damp patches in the sand where he lies, sweat and tears both. They whiten to salt in the sun.
Hikaru is a dark silhouette, voice tight with anger. "Are you a madman?"
Pavel sits up. When he smiles, his lips crack open and bleed. "Who isn't, in this place?" He asks, dry-throated, but he takes the hand Hikaru offers.
Hikaru pulls him up and close, not letting go of his hand. His eyes are sharp, sharper than Pavel's ever seen them, and maybe a little desperate. "Never pull something like that again." He snaps, and Pavel bristles.
"If I do, you won't be able to yell at me," He points out, knowing he's being childish. "You're leaving."
Hikaru's eyes soften. "Pasha," he says, and Pavel is reminded yet again of how close they are standing, "We were always going to leave. It's who we are. We can't afford to...to make connections. Put down roots."
"I do not want you rooted!" Pavel protests. "If you were rooted, you could not fly. I know that, Hikaru." He swallows, and then traces the line of Hikaru's collarbone. "Bring me with you. Let me be your copilot."
Hikaru closes his eyes, breathing in a long breath. "You are young, Pasha. So young."
Something in Pavel breaks, sharply and wetly. Tears spring to his eyes. "Pavel," he insists angrily. "Pavel Andreivich Chekov."
Hikaru looks surprised, opening his eyes. His gaze seems to catch on Pavel's lips, like a thread on a door frame, and then he tears it away. "Pavel." He says, and there is a nervous note to his voice.
"Would it really matter so much?" Pavel asks, still a little angry, turning Hikaru's face to his with insistent fingers against his chin. "Would two months make so much difference to you? Do you fear the law? What?"
"Not the law," he says, shiver-soft. "I fear...time. I know that you feel like we're fated, we're forever, but...forever doesn't work that way." He slides a thumb across Pavel's bottom lip, catching up the bright bead of blood. "What if I take you far away from here and we don't...." He takes a long, shaking breath. "I'd rather lose you now than see you lost, in a year or ten."
Pavel laughs loud to the too-blue sky, and Hikaru looks at him like he's gone mad. "Hikaru!" He gasps out, when he has room for anything but disbelief and bubbling joy. "I am already so far from my home, what difference could a few miles make? Russia is in my heart and in my heels. Everywhere else is...eh, a temporary stop. Besides." He presses in, forehead to forehead with Hikaru. "Forever may not work that way, but that is because forever has not met me."
Hikaru laughs, then, velvet and a little awed, and Pavel kisses him, chapped lips to cool ones. Hikaru's hands are firm on Pavel's hips. He tastes slightly sour and slightly bitter from tobacco, and Pavel runs his tongue over the line of his perfect teeth. Hikaru leans back a little, breathing his air. "Forever has not met us." He murmurs against Pavel's lips. "Yet."
****
The lights are bright, making dark spots in Pavel's vision, but Hikaru's face is clear and confident. He feels a smile blossom, from heart to lips, and reaches out, linking his hand with Hikaru's. He can hear the crowds outside, babbling and laughing and clapping. The people here are no less excited than they were in Kansas, or Tennessee, or Virginia, though the nights are getting cold.
The drumbeat begins, and Hikaru pulls him close, pressing all along him just for an instant.
"Fly with me." He whispers, hot and low, and the curtain rises.
Wordcount: ~2,000
Pairing/Characters: Chekov/Sulu, Uhura/Spock (onesided), Kirk/Spock, Scotty, Bones, Chapel, Rand
Rating: PG-13.
Disclaimer: I don't own them!
Summary: ...It's a Circus!AU, set in the late 80s (around the fall of the Soviet Union) in Arizona.
Note: Part one of (I think) two. Been kicking around in my head for months, so. Title from The Tiger by William Blake.
After that, he tags along with Nyota whenever she will let him, closing up the store a little early so that he can catch the last rays of the sun on the horizon. Sometimes she shows him around, or they hang out against the trailers, smoking her cigarettes while she vents about the long-fingered juggler (who, he discovers, is her tragic, oblivious love).
"Just tell him," he says, and she laughs a full, joyful laugh. "No," she says, and shakes her head, eyes upward to the darkening sky. "No, Pasha, it is better as it is. I would rather have sad, longing dreams than no dreams at all."
Most often, though, Hikaru will come out and meet him just as Nyota slips inside, leaving him holding the end of the cigarette. Sometimes he will take it before Pavel even has a chance to take a drag, cool, strong fingers brushing across Pavel's knuckles. Pavel will smile at him and turn away so that he doesn't have to watch Hikaru put the butt of the cig to his lips, doesn't have to watch him roll the smoke in his mouth like there is something to it, something more than bitter air and tinted illusion.
He releases it, and when he does he's always smiling, like the smoke carries away his stress with it. He smiles at Pavel, especially, like he's sharing something secret and silent. His dark eyes crinkle at the corners, and Pavel aches.
Tonight he comes out of the tent smiling, though, and steals the cig directly from Pavel's lips, standing close. He tucks it between his own and then grabs Pavel by the wrist, pulling him into the tent.
Breathless for a moment, Pavel finally recovers his wits enough to stutter out, "Hikaru, what - where are we - "
"Shh!" Hikaru put two quick fingers to Pavel's lips, and Pavel closes his eyes with the effort not to kiss them. "Silence, Pasha," Hikaru says, and the blood rushes to Pavel's cheeks at the nickname. He is tugged forward, and he goes, eyes fluttering open to see -
The great lion, prowling around the center ring. Its shoulders move with silken grace, tail lashing around and around, belying its paws' slow pad. Its eyes are fixed on the figure in the center of the ring - the ringmaster, Kirk, dressed in his long, flared coat and high black boots. He looks tiny, next to the great cat, and Pavel realizes with a start that he is bare-handed - he has no whip, no prod, not even a long stick or switch.
"Is he a madman?" He breathes in horror, close to Hikaru's ear, and Hikaru flicks dark eyes to his. "Who isn't, in this place?" He asks, and grins, a sly, shining thing. It has little curls at the edges, hooks that pluck low and hot in Pavel's stomach.
Pavel takes in a long breath, releases it to the dark corners of the tent. When he turns his eyes again to the ring, the lion has lowered its head to James Tiberius Kirk, great forepaws stretched out in deference. The ringmaster glows in the dimness of the work lights, tawnier almost than his beast.
A shadow detaches itself from the rest, approaching Kirk. It resolves itself into the pale juggler - Spock, he is called ("Why Spock?" He asks Nyota, later, and she folds her lips in the sad way she does when he is mentioned, and then says, "Why Pavel?") - and he is ghosting long hands across Kirk's shoulders.
Kirk turns, not stepping away, and they lean in close, breathing into one another's space, voices low and warm.
Pavel shivers as Hikaru wraps a warm hand around his shoulder and leads him away.
*
He makes enough money to buy a bicycle, and then he is there every night rather than very few. The ride into the desert is long, if flat, and often he has sweat pouring down his back when he arrives. The summer is lengthening again - compared to Russia, it is always summer, here, but now the locals are beginning to agree.
Everything is busy, at the circus - people rushing about everywhere. Janice is sitting by one of the trailers, using its headlights to see as she fixes up the paint on a sign. Nyota walks by pushing a rack of costumes that sparkle and shine in the dusk. Finally, Scotty notices him from where he was sitting, doing something complicated with the insides of an ancient, rusted ticket-machine.
"Hey, Chekov," he says, and gestures Pavel over with a screwdriver. "So long as you're around, you might as well lend a hand. "
Pavel does, holding the flashlight for him and pointing out where the wire is chewed through. They're a still point in a sea of movement, people rushing about everywhere. He sees Hikaru slide past once or twice, itches to go after him, but Scotty growls at him to keep his hands steady.
"You are preparing to open the show?" He asks Scotty, as the drummer dusts off his hands and replaces the panel on the back of the machine. Scotty nods. "Aye. This Sunday we open the doors to the gawking public. Gotta make sure we look our best."
Pavel nodded. "I will help," he says seriously, and Scotty grins at him. "Thanks, lad." He nodded to his left. "I think Sulu's over with the beasts, if you wanna go help him. Bring the broom."
Pavel does, casting Scotty a grateful look. Scotty watches him go with twinkling eyes.
Broom slung over his shoulders, he slips into the enclosure where the cages and pens are. The lion is asleep, head on its crossed paws like an enormous dog. The horses blows puffs of hot air from their nostrils at him. "No carrots, sorry," he laughs, and they eye him with disdain.
Hikaru is nowhere to be seen, but his discarded shirt is lying in a heap by the fence and Pavel decides to wait. He begins to sweep the hay and dust off the ground, although it is more like sweeping dust off of dust. He ignores the shirt, trying not to imagine Hikaru without it, like the day he first saw him, all coiled strength, sweat tracing his supple muscles. He raises the broom and awkwardly imitates those moves of the sword dance that he can remember (which is most of them - it is a well-worn memory). The broom is not balanced right and he feels off-center and strange. He swings it behind him, intending to bring it up and around and above his head in a majestic sweep.
Something catches the broom, behind him, and a low, familiar chuckle stops him in his tracks. He spins, still holding onto the broom, to find Hikaru grinning at him. "No, no, Pasha," he says, and then he's adjusting Pavel's hands with gentle fingers, sliding his hands down the smooth wood to here and there. He steps around Pavel, and then there is a hand at the base of his spine, pushing forward, and another on his chest, pulling back, and Pavel curves his spine, almost afraid to breathe as the hands slide, slow and soft, to his arms. "Swing," Hikaru murmurs in his ear, and Pavel swallows and does so. Hikaru's hands on his shoulders guide the path of his arms, and the broom feels much less awkward now. He thrusts forward with it, releases it with one hand, and turns with a swing, cutting a long vertical circle in the air next to him.
Hikaru has not moved away, and Pavel freezes, chest to chest with him, the momentum of the broom twisting his hand awkwardly. He drops it, and it clatters, hits the dust, brush and then pole, thumpthump. Thumpthump. His eyes are glued to Hikaru's face and god, they are so close, he can feel Hikaru radiating heat.
Hikaru raises a hand, traces it up the side of Pavel's face, and Pavel's eyelids flutter. He lets himself melt into the touch a little, and he thinks, just for a moment, that he sees something like longing in Hikaru's eyes.
And then Hikaru's hand moves up to his curls, tugging on them playfully. "We'll make a dancer of you yet, Pasha," he says, and steps away.
Pavel rides home hard, that night, arriving sweaty and breathing short and sharp. His mother stops him as he flees to his section of the trailer.
"I am worried about you," she says. "Always away at that circus. It is not healthy, Pasha. Your father died in the ring, and yet you want to follow him!"
He shushes her, soothing. "It is fine, mother. The circus here is...nothing like those at home." He forces a smile. "I will show you! They open on Sunday, you should come with me."
"Come with you? How? I cannot fit on your tiny bike, Pasha!"
Pavel thinks for a moment. "I will get the jeep from Hikaru. Or he will drive us, earlier, and I can introduce you to everyone."
His mother immediately relaxes. Hikaru had won her over entirely one of the nights he'd driven Pavel home, charming her with sweet words and winning smiles. "He will keep you safe," she says, half a question. "He will not let anything happen."
He nods, and slips away to his bed. He fists a hand against his stomach, drags the other across his eyes. He will not let anything happen.
**
He waits backstage during the first show, feeling like a ghost among the dust and feathers and glitter that littered the "wings" of the ring. He can hear Scotty's steady drumbeat, and closes his eyes, imagining Sulu spinning high above the ground, strong, perfect hands catching the bar, clap-clap, creating his own rhythm.
His mother had loved Scotty, hated Nyota. She'd blushed at being introduced to Kirk, and made eyes of her own at Spock. And now she is sitting out there, transfixed, no doubt, by the beauty in front of her.
He could be out there, too, but Nyota had asked him to stay here, help them from their costumes when they needed it, and he is glad of the chance. The circus feels like it is his, his place, and he does not wish to sit among the people he is forced to share it with.
When the curtain opens he catches a glimpse of Spock, hands like the wings of a hummingbird, seemingly surrounded by a thousand flying balls of every color of the rainbow. The crowd roars and claps and screams, and then Nyota snaps her fingers in his face and he hurries to unzip her costume.
She's silent as she strips, and he understands that. He's been there - almost. He's performed on small stages, juggling and acrobatics mostly. He's come close to the sort of focus she has - bright-eyed and grinning but not ready to break the hold the lights and the audience have on her, because she's not done. She's not lazy, laconic Nyota yet - she's the Silk Queen, spinning her spiderweb of illusion above the crowd.
She is beautiful, all long, arched spine and bare feet, and he wishes for a single moment that he cared. It would be easier, perhaps, to long for a woman.
She darts back out into the noise, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
***
After the show, she finds him for a cigarette, and quirks an eyebrow. "It was amazing," he says, and then grins, "From what I saw from the back. "
"Of course it was," she said. "We're a circus."
"We're a circus," he agrees.
She looks at him sideways like a bird, a little startled and a little sad. She opens her mouth to speak, but the flap opens and Hikaru's laugh draws Pavel's eyes.
Sulu is leading his mother from the tent, grinning at her, and she's beaming, happier than he's seen her in a long time. Something in him clenches tight, and he stands tall, rigid.
Hikaru looks up. His eyes slide off Pavel's face, his smile fading a little. "Come on, I'll take you two home."
Pavel bites his lips. "You go on," he says. "I'll take my bicycle."
Hikaru frowns, but doesn't say anything. Pavel's mother, however, immediately objects. "Don't be ridiculous, Pasha. It was a beautiful thing, the circus, but you cannot become dependent on it. Hikaru was just telling me how they leave soon - move on West with the wind."
Pavel gulps in the night air, turns accusing eyes on Nyota because he can't look at Hikaru. The sadness in her face intensifies. "I am sorry, Pasha, that we did not tell you. But...it can't be that unexpected. We are a circus."
He takes the cigarette from her. "You are a circus," he says, and breathes in bitterness.
"Pavel!" His mother says sharply. "Are you smoking?"
Pavel looks at her, looks at Hikaru, standing still and silent next to her, and releases a long breath. "I will take my bicycle," he repeats, and slides into the darkness of the desert.
He rides in long, sweeping circles, burning off the nervous energy making his limbs shake. He can feel it building behind his eyes, at the hollow of his throat. If he stops, he will cry.
When the sun peeks over the horizon he drops, limbs like lead, onto the sand. The sky lightens above him, and he thinks, beautiful.
He leaves damp patches in the sand where he lies, sweat and tears both. They whiten to salt in the sun.
Hikaru is a dark silhouette, voice tight with anger. "Are you a madman?"
Pavel sits up. When he smiles, his lips crack open and bleed. "Who isn't, in this place?" He asks, dry-throated, but he takes the hand Hikaru offers.
Hikaru pulls him up and close, not letting go of his hand. His eyes are sharp, sharper than Pavel's ever seen them, and maybe a little desperate. "Never pull something like that again." He snaps, and Pavel bristles.
"If I do, you won't be able to yell at me," He points out, knowing he's being childish. "You're leaving."
Hikaru's eyes soften. "Pasha," he says, and Pavel is reminded yet again of how close they are standing, "We were always going to leave. It's who we are. We can't afford to...to make connections. Put down roots."
"I do not want you rooted!" Pavel protests. "If you were rooted, you could not fly. I know that, Hikaru." He swallows, and then traces the line of Hikaru's collarbone. "Bring me with you. Let me be your copilot."
Hikaru closes his eyes, breathing in a long breath. "You are young, Pasha. So young."
Something in Pavel breaks, sharply and wetly. Tears spring to his eyes. "Pavel," he insists angrily. "Pavel Andreivich Chekov."
Hikaru looks surprised, opening his eyes. His gaze seems to catch on Pavel's lips, like a thread on a door frame, and then he tears it away. "Pavel." He says, and there is a nervous note to his voice.
"Would it really matter so much?" Pavel asks, still a little angry, turning Hikaru's face to his with insistent fingers against his chin. "Would two months make so much difference to you? Do you fear the law? What?"
"Not the law," he says, shiver-soft. "I fear...time. I know that you feel like we're fated, we're forever, but...forever doesn't work that way." He slides a thumb across Pavel's bottom lip, catching up the bright bead of blood. "What if I take you far away from here and we don't...." He takes a long, shaking breath. "I'd rather lose you now than see you lost, in a year or ten."
Pavel laughs loud to the too-blue sky, and Hikaru looks at him like he's gone mad. "Hikaru!" He gasps out, when he has room for anything but disbelief and bubbling joy. "I am already so far from my home, what difference could a few miles make? Russia is in my heart and in my heels. Everywhere else is...eh, a temporary stop. Besides." He presses in, forehead to forehead with Hikaru. "Forever may not work that way, but that is because forever has not met me."
Hikaru laughs, then, velvet and a little awed, and Pavel kisses him, chapped lips to cool ones. Hikaru's hands are firm on Pavel's hips. He tastes slightly sour and slightly bitter from tobacco, and Pavel runs his tongue over the line of his perfect teeth. Hikaru leans back a little, breathing his air. "Forever has not met us." He murmurs against Pavel's lips. "Yet."
****
The lights are bright, making dark spots in Pavel's vision, but Hikaru's face is clear and confident. He feels a smile blossom, from heart to lips, and reaches out, linking his hand with Hikaru's. He can hear the crowds outside, babbling and laughing and clapping. The people here are no less excited than they were in Kansas, or Tennessee, or Virginia, though the nights are getting cold.
The drumbeat begins, and Hikaru pulls him close, pressing all along him just for an instant.
"Fly with me." He whispers, hot and low, and the curtain rises.