[The most staunchly traditional Russians--even the ones in the twenty-second century--celebrate their birthdays by throwing a ridiculously elaborate and costly party for however many close family members and friends they have the resources to feed. That's one tradition that Chekov isn't about to argue in favor of. This thing where other people put together a party and presents still happen? It's awesome. Not that he'll admit that, of course.
Chekov spends the day bouncing between friends, eating (and drinking) as much as is humanly possible without sustaining bodily harm, and trying not to act like this is basically the best party he's ever been to, which it is. (He might not publicize his own birthday, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't not-so-secretly want to be lavished with gifts and attention.) Other party goers can find him just about everywhere: building sandcastles (with less finesse than Spock), starting splash wars, tucking away barbeque like it's going out style, explaining his favorite theories about the City's physical structure with the aid of drawings in the sand, pretending not to watch his superiors flirt with each other like shameless teenagers. There's every chance that the navigator will be even louder and more candid than usual; although he typically doesn't drink enough to impair his judgment, this seems like a fine day to be judgment-impaired.
Later in the night when the bonfire's roaring and the stars are scattered across the sky, the particularly bold might catch Chekov brooding into a plastic cup full of vodka and contemplating the future, the inevitable leaving the City and all memories related to it behind, and the likelihood that he won't be around to celebrate another birthday after this one.
Brooding after drinking too much is a tradition, after all, and one can only neglect so many traditions in one day.]
ANY OF THE TIMES // ota
Chekov spends the day bouncing between friends, eating (and drinking) as much as is humanly possible without sustaining bodily harm, and trying not to act like this is basically the best party he's ever been to, which it is. (He might not publicize his own birthday, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't not-so-secretly want to be lavished with gifts and attention.) Other party goers can find him just about everywhere: building sandcastles (with less finesse than Spock), starting splash wars, tucking away barbeque like it's going out style, explaining his favorite theories about the City's physical structure with the aid of drawings in the sand, pretending not to watch his superiors flirt with each other like shameless teenagers. There's every chance that the navigator will be even louder and more candid than usual; although he typically doesn't drink enough to impair his judgment, this seems like a fine day to be judgment-impaired.
Later in the night when the bonfire's roaring and the stars are scattered across the sky, the particularly bold might catch Chekov brooding into a plastic cup full of vodka and contemplating the future, the inevitable leaving the City and all memories related to it behind, and the likelihood that he won't be around to celebrate another birthday after this one.
Brooding after drinking too much is a tradition, after all, and one can only neglect so many traditions in one day.]