(no subject)
TITLE: in old love songs
PAIRING: Chekov/Sulu
RATING: R
LENGTH: approx 1100
DISCLAIMER: These men belong entirely to someone else.
SUMMARY: And then there’s Chekov and a never-ending game of chess and, somehow, it’s the only place to be.
A/N: This is for bsafemydeers who's heart was broken by hollycomb and haven't we all been there? (I ♥ you, Holly!). This is 1000 words of unmitigated fluff and chess, and I make no apologises. I'll write something plotty and angsty next time, I promise. Title from Shenandoah by Anais Mitchell.
every night when the night was long
she was clinging to me
told me twice that her love was strong
stronger than the love in old love songs.
The board stays. Sulu comes off shift, weary and bleary-eyed and he shrugs out of his uniform shirt and then he stands holding it while he studies a game that’s changed subtly since the last time he was here. For a long time, Chekov used to leave his moves written on a PADD on the table but he’s stopped doing that, and Sulu prefers it that way.
It feels more like he’s holding his own.
Even when he’s losing.
He reaches out, brushes his fingers against a piece but changes his mind about the move at the last minute. Even with Chekov on shift on the bridge, Sulu’s pretty sure that he couldn’t bring himself to make a move and then take it back. He only just lets himself touch the piece. He catches sight of himself in the mirror and smirks, shaking his head. He doesn’t know what this is; they eat dinner together, watch movies sometimes but, when their schedules don’t match up, all they have is a bed that Sulu sleeps in when Chekov doesn’t and an everlasting game of chess.
Taking the time to think, Sulu wanders around the room cleaning up after Chekov, folding a t-shirt over the back of the chair, retrieving a stuffed toy rhino from underneath the desk. With Tolstoy cradled in the crook of his arm, he leans across the table and makes his move. He retrieves a spare PADD and leaves Chekov a note and then he dims the lights and climbs into bed, turning his face into a pillow that smells of whatever Chekov uses to wash his hair.
2.am Pacific time.
Check.
*
He gets out of the shower to find Chekov sitting at the table, stripped to the waist and studying the game with his chin leaned into his hand. Sulu stops, for a moment, leaning his hip against the doorframe and watches the slip-slide of the muscle in Chekov’s shoulders as he scrubs one hand back through his hair.
“Long shift?” he asks and Chekov looks at him and, not for the first time, Sulu’s taken with how green his eyes look when he’s tired. Sometimes, Sulu finds himself longing for California, and then Chekov’s eyes are the same green as the still and stormless sea in Fall, and, somehow, he finds himself comforting.
Forget your hat. Home is with your heart.
“Boring shift,” says Chekov, and Sulu walks up behind him and he rests one hand warmly against his skin. Chekov leans back into his hand and closes his eyes and Sulu stirs his thumb through the short hair at the nape of his neck. A smile tugs upwards at the corner of Chekov’s mouth and Sulu finds himself looking at the piece between Chekov’s fingers and then he looks at the board.
“Well, shit,” he says, and then Chekov’s really smiling.
“Checkmate,” he says, and he looks so pleased with himself that Sulu all but growls and then he tugs his head backwards by his hair and he leans down and kisses him.
“I guess I’m doing your fucking laundry again then?”
Chekov looks up at him with wide green eyes and there’s this flush in his cheeks and Sulu remembers an away mission on a world where the biting wind never stopped blowing and how Chekov had looked flushed and breathless and wild for weeks on end, and then he’d kissed him. He’d loved that fucking planet.
“It is seven A.M Pacific time,” says Chekov, his fingers slipping against bare skin and the white towel wrapped around Sulu’s waist.
Sulu quirks an eyebrow.
“Yes?”
“You aren’t due on the bridge until nine.”
Sulu doesn’t say anything. He leans down and gently takes the chess piece out of Chekov’s hand and sets it back on the board. In a couple of hours, he’ll be back on the bridge and Chekov will be sleep tousled and yawning and he’ll sit down with cup of coffee and he’ll reset the board piece by piece and, tomorrow, they’ll start the game again because, for right now, it’s as close as they get, most days but, for now, they have time.
The bed is narrow with both of them in it but they find a way. Chekov shifts and wraps his legs up around Sulu’s waist and both hands up over his head, holding on to the bed frame, and he bites his lip and he shifts down and Sulu does the best that he can to hold on and then the pulse flutters in Chekov’s throat and he moans and all Sulu can think is fucking checkmate.
“I love you,” he says, and it’s out of his mouth before he realises that it’s the first time he’s ever said and he doesn’t give a shit because it’s true because there’s this kid, this wonderful kid who has maps of the whole universe in his head and he does love him, he loves him so much, and he doesn’t care if he never wins.
Flushed and wide eyed and beautiful, Chekov blinks and then he smiles broad and beautiful and he gives this little, very Russian nod of his head.
“I know,” he says, his fingers digging into the skin and muscle over Sulu’s hips, drawing him in tighter, pulling, and he can feel the chafe of Chekov’s dick against his belly and all Sulu thinks is that he could do this forever only he can’t and he won’t because the bridge is expecting him and the board needs to be reset.
Chekov comes with a gasp and flood of warmth between their bodies and someone makes this broken sound and Sulu thinks that it must be him.
What is he supposed to do but follow?
Afterwards, he bends his head and kisses Chekov’s shoulder. Without opening his eyes, Chekov smiles.
“You need another shower,” he says, quietly. His accent’s always thicker when he’s on the way to falling asleep and Sulu strokes his hair back from his forehead and kisses the bridge of his nose.
“I think I’ll go to the bridge smelling of you,” he says and Chekov huffs a laugh out through his nose and swats at him with one hand and there’s another hour or so until he needs to be on the bridge, so Sulu closes his eyes and there’s always been a part of him that yearned for stars and a part of him that will always yearn for the green sea where he grew up and then there’s Chekov and a never-ending game of chess and, somehow, it’s the only place to be.
PAIRING: Chekov/Sulu
RATING: R
LENGTH: approx 1100
DISCLAIMER: These men belong entirely to someone else.
SUMMARY: And then there’s Chekov and a never-ending game of chess and, somehow, it’s the only place to be.
A/N: This is for bsafemydeers who's heart was broken by hollycomb and haven't we all been there? (I ♥ you, Holly!). This is 1000 words of unmitigated fluff and chess, and I make no apologises. I'll write something plotty and angsty next time, I promise. Title from Shenandoah by Anais Mitchell.
every night when the night was long
she was clinging to me
told me twice that her love was strong
stronger than the love in old love songs.
The board stays. Sulu comes off shift, weary and bleary-eyed and he shrugs out of his uniform shirt and then he stands holding it while he studies a game that’s changed subtly since the last time he was here. For a long time, Chekov used to leave his moves written on a PADD on the table but he’s stopped doing that, and Sulu prefers it that way.
It feels more like he’s holding his own.
Even when he’s losing.
He reaches out, brushes his fingers against a piece but changes his mind about the move at the last minute. Even with Chekov on shift on the bridge, Sulu’s pretty sure that he couldn’t bring himself to make a move and then take it back. He only just lets himself touch the piece. He catches sight of himself in the mirror and smirks, shaking his head. He doesn’t know what this is; they eat dinner together, watch movies sometimes but, when their schedules don’t match up, all they have is a bed that Sulu sleeps in when Chekov doesn’t and an everlasting game of chess.
Taking the time to think, Sulu wanders around the room cleaning up after Chekov, folding a t-shirt over the back of the chair, retrieving a stuffed toy rhino from underneath the desk. With Tolstoy cradled in the crook of his arm, he leans across the table and makes his move. He retrieves a spare PADD and leaves Chekov a note and then he dims the lights and climbs into bed, turning his face into a pillow that smells of whatever Chekov uses to wash his hair.
2.am Pacific time.
Check.
*
He gets out of the shower to find Chekov sitting at the table, stripped to the waist and studying the game with his chin leaned into his hand. Sulu stops, for a moment, leaning his hip against the doorframe and watches the slip-slide of the muscle in Chekov’s shoulders as he scrubs one hand back through his hair.
“Long shift?” he asks and Chekov looks at him and, not for the first time, Sulu’s taken with how green his eyes look when he’s tired. Sometimes, Sulu finds himself longing for California, and then Chekov’s eyes are the same green as the still and stormless sea in Fall, and, somehow, he finds himself comforting.
Forget your hat. Home is with your heart.
“Boring shift,” says Chekov, and Sulu walks up behind him and he rests one hand warmly against his skin. Chekov leans back into his hand and closes his eyes and Sulu stirs his thumb through the short hair at the nape of his neck. A smile tugs upwards at the corner of Chekov’s mouth and Sulu finds himself looking at the piece between Chekov’s fingers and then he looks at the board.
“Well, shit,” he says, and then Chekov’s really smiling.
“Checkmate,” he says, and he looks so pleased with himself that Sulu all but growls and then he tugs his head backwards by his hair and he leans down and kisses him.
“I guess I’m doing your fucking laundry again then?”
Chekov looks up at him with wide green eyes and there’s this flush in his cheeks and Sulu remembers an away mission on a world where the biting wind never stopped blowing and how Chekov had looked flushed and breathless and wild for weeks on end, and then he’d kissed him. He’d loved that fucking planet.
“It is seven A.M Pacific time,” says Chekov, his fingers slipping against bare skin and the white towel wrapped around Sulu’s waist.
Sulu quirks an eyebrow.
“Yes?”
“You aren’t due on the bridge until nine.”
Sulu doesn’t say anything. He leans down and gently takes the chess piece out of Chekov’s hand and sets it back on the board. In a couple of hours, he’ll be back on the bridge and Chekov will be sleep tousled and yawning and he’ll sit down with cup of coffee and he’ll reset the board piece by piece and, tomorrow, they’ll start the game again because, for right now, it’s as close as they get, most days but, for now, they have time.
The bed is narrow with both of them in it but they find a way. Chekov shifts and wraps his legs up around Sulu’s waist and both hands up over his head, holding on to the bed frame, and he bites his lip and he shifts down and Sulu does the best that he can to hold on and then the pulse flutters in Chekov’s throat and he moans and all Sulu can think is fucking checkmate.
“I love you,” he says, and it’s out of his mouth before he realises that it’s the first time he’s ever said and he doesn’t give a shit because it’s true because there’s this kid, this wonderful kid who has maps of the whole universe in his head and he does love him, he loves him so much, and he doesn’t care if he never wins.
Flushed and wide eyed and beautiful, Chekov blinks and then he smiles broad and beautiful and he gives this little, very Russian nod of his head.
“I know,” he says, his fingers digging into the skin and muscle over Sulu’s hips, drawing him in tighter, pulling, and he can feel the chafe of Chekov’s dick against his belly and all Sulu thinks is that he could do this forever only he can’t and he won’t because the bridge is expecting him and the board needs to be reset.
Chekov comes with a gasp and flood of warmth between their bodies and someone makes this broken sound and Sulu thinks that it must be him.
What is he supposed to do but follow?
Afterwards, he bends his head and kisses Chekov’s shoulder. Without opening his eyes, Chekov smiles.
“You need another shower,” he says, quietly. His accent’s always thicker when he’s on the way to falling asleep and Sulu strokes his hair back from his forehead and kisses the bridge of his nose.
“I think I’ll go to the bridge smelling of you,” he says and Chekov huffs a laugh out through his nose and swats at him with one hand and there’s another hour or so until he needs to be on the bridge, so Sulu closes his eyes and there’s always been a part of him that yearned for stars and a part of him that will always yearn for the green sea where he grew up and then there’s Chekov and a never-ending game of chess and, somehow, it’s the only place to be.