(Age Four)


Sandra Lee facepalmed, sighing out as she rubbed her forehead.

She couldn't leave him alone for five minutes. At least, not when his father was out. She didn't want to open her eyes. For a long moment, she saw only the dark side of her fingers.

When she parted them to peek out... yep. Her son was still grinning like a mad thing up at her.

"Harold Lee, just how do you think I'll ever get that stuff out of your hair?"

His answer came without words; he reached up to dig a particularly large gob of marshmallow fluff out of his hair and promptly ate it.

Sandra sank into a chair, laughing into both hands.

(Age 7)

Harold had the perfect set-up.

Awesome plastic lightsaber in hand, and a big stack of pillows and blankets neat on the bed. He stood on his dresser, sneakers perched precariously on the edge. Though, it wasn't a dresser. Oh, no. It was some unrailed ledge high in the Death Star, certain death below if he should lose his footing, and Darth Vader stared him down from below.

He narrowed his eyes at his opponent. Darth Pillows' cool gaze met his own, ever defiant.

Harold sliced his mighty weapon through the air, the sing of the energy blade provided helpfully by his own mouth.

Darth Bedding didn't flinch.

Jedi Master Lee quirked a little grin, holding his blade outward for only a moment more before flinging himself off his dress-- off the ledge with a shrill cry, sure he would complete his arc to remove the foul Sith's head.


Master Lee's head connected with the ceiling fan with a fine crack, and he fell in a heap on the floor.

Still, Darth Linens stared.

In the moments before he began to cry, he fancied that cool, cottony gaze was mocking him.

***

Harold was proud. He'd managed to mostly contain his tears as his father checked and bandaged the fine battle scar across his forehead. Harold had swiftly stuffed his weapon under his bed before his parents had made it up the stairs at the sound of his cries (if not the incredible thump of his backside on that floor; he'd have an impressive bruise).

He'd made up a fine tale about trying to dust the ceiling fan and misjudging the distance.

If his father disbelieved him, he was either too kind to say or felt the knot on Harold's head was punishment enough for the lie.

Small white bandage covering his shame, Myon patted his son's shoulder before heading back to the living room, shaking his head.

Harold's mother wrapped arms around his waist, lifting him from the kitchen counter and depositing him onto the floor after a brief cuddle. She crouched, eying her son with an amused, knowing expression.

"How'd it really happen, Greenbean?"

Her son? Dusting because he felt like it? Not a chance.

Harold's eyes went wide. Some days, he thought his mom must be a Jedi herself, for as easily as she could divine the truth of things. Or cull it from him.

He sniffed, biting his bottom lip as he wiped one still-bleary eye. He answered in a small, embarrassed little voice.

"...I was bein' a Jedi master."

(Age Twelve)


It looked like glass, but it wasn't. For one, glass was breakable. And outside it was raining and cool, but inside it was kept at a constant, comfortable temperature and humidity.

It looked like glass, but it wasn't. He could see the world, but not escape into it.

It was childish, but as he stared out there into the tree-lined lane, he wished. He wished, and maybe if he wished hard enough, he could will himself through this unbreakable thing. He could do that, and he could bolt to someplace where no one ever looks, a hidden space in the middle of a city. Hide there, a wee Peter Pan who could fly if he believed he could fly.

It looked like glass but wasn't. It looked breakable, but it wasn't. He wished harder, even when he heard the door slide open behind him. The nurse or whatever she was called him Monty, and said it was time to go to a group session.

In bare defiance, he refused to acknowledge her, eyes narrowed fiercely on the world outside, the city and the wilderness beyond.

It was unbreakable. But so was he.

(Age Fifteen)

Her son was going through a quiet phase, she thought. High school was never easy on anyone, but it had seemed to take an exceptional toll on Harold.

He had always been quiet in the company of his father; it was as though neither had any idea what to say to the other. Rather than risk saying the wrong thing, she thought, Harold opted to say little at all. Now, though, her son was just... quiet. All the time. Even with her.

Sandra wondered just what went on in the little world inside Harold's head.

Some days she thought she just missed her little boy, running around swinging a plastic lightsaber and creating his own worlds under her kitchen table. That this was just his growing up. He was too old to interrupt her chores, and it was time for him to learn to fit in with the world. Still. Something changed.

She missed his voice.

There was no excited bouncing, or squirming inability to hide the surprise. No fanfare for the gift at all, aside the neat wrapping. She pulled the tape away carefully, not wanting to ruin it.

The notepad inside was decorated cover to cover. They were just doodles. Of course she'd known her son used to draw; stick figures and animals and landscapes. Child doodles. It had been a long time since she'd seen that, too. These drawings had come a long way from that. It was obviously an assignment; the school had a required art class. She didn't love it any less for the obviousness.

She shut the little book, tucking it away.

She thought maybe her son had found a different kind of voice.

(Age Eighteen)



The sound filtered into his consciousness more slowly than he actually thought it should. An incessant, uncomfortable noise. In truth, it probably only took it two seconds to wake him, but he couldn't afford even that.

He jumped out of his bunk, not even taking the time to rub the sleep from his eyes, and started squaring it away as quickly and neatly as he could. Down the row, he heard their DI barking at another recruit, and he went impossibly faster to finish in time.

He could hear those boots hitting the floor and the rustle of sheets. No speaking -- that was asking for extra PT. He worked fast, hands flying over the sheets. Finished. It was perfect. The guy next to him was still struggling with his.

He didn't even think, just quickly caught one corner and squared the other recruit's bunk away, fast enough that no one saw him do it.

Or, so he thought.

After the DI walked past, apparently approving of the swift work of the rest of the new Starfleet recruits, and after they'd been told to get dressed for mess, the guy he'd just helped reached over and ruffled his hair. The motion startled him, and he near drew back a fist, when the grateful whisper reached his ears.

"Thanks, Scotty."

(2002)

The simple matter of it was, Harold Lee really f*cking hated that cat.

He was normally such an animal lover. How he'd managed to get into a war of wills with a goddamn feline he couldn't adequately explain, but there he sat, staring down Mister f*cking Sniffles.

Who the hell actually named a cat that? There were days when Harold was so brain dead and pissed off that he actually had to bite that question off. Lin would freak.

Lin freaked about everything.

Which was why Harold Lee's *ss was planted in that couch about now, view of the TV blocked by the lithe shape of his girlfriend. And a very attractive form it was, though it was decidedly ruined by the scowl she wore and the unending stream of shrill, pure, powdered f*cking nag exiting her mouth.

Harold fidgeted with the remote, resisting the urge to keep trying to argue, nodding dutifully now and again. That f*cking cat. Mister f*cking Sniffles sat tall on the end of the couch, his proud, cold stare mocking Harold mercilessly with each failed attempt of his to get a word in edgewise.

So he'd forgotten to feed the little sh*t. It ate three times a day. It never stopped devouring anything in its path not nailed the f*ck down. Aside its vendetta against Harold, eating was its primary purpose in life. It looked like Jabba the Hut with fur and an attitude problem.

Was it really the end of the world?

...ah. F*cking perfect. Finally a word in edgewise and they turned out to be exactly the wrong f*cking ones. He hadn't so much meant to say that out loud.

Mister f*cking Sniffles seemed to smirk at him, pawing at its muzzle like a feline facepalm.

Harold bent over where he sat, dragging both hands through his hair. He laughed, a mirthless sort of sound.

Mister f*cking Sniffles was out to get him. It was the only explanation.

First, there had been the weed. The f*cking weed. Okay, so maybe Harold shouldn't have left the joint on the coffee table beside the cat toys. He didn't expect the cat to be a f*cking instinctive stoner, all right? And fine, maybe he shouldn't have laughed, but what could he do? He was never very sure if the cat actually got high off eating that last spliff, but he sure as hell found it funny.

Well. For the first five seconds. Kumar and Lin could rant at frequencies that when directed at either ear was like holding two sonic screwdrivers together. F*cking shockwave.

Second, came the goddamn spot on their bed. Swear to god, that cat was out to steal his girlfriend. True story. He had to race the f*cking thing to bed or risk sleeping in the tiniest top f*cking corner, because it made a point of stretching out further than reality should have allowed for, fat*ss or not. That damn thing was way too fat to actually shove off
and even if Harold could, there was no way Lin was letting him manhandle her precious cat.

God forbid he actually get up to take a piss. Harold could swear even at 3 AM the thing was just sitting over there, waiting for that last beer to catch up with him.

Oh, and could he forget the shoes? No. No, he couldn't. And Harold thought Kumar was god awful for leaving mystery substances in Harold's stuff. Mister f*cking Sniffles had a serious boner for hairballing in anything Harold dared leave lying around.

Harold was convinced they were in cahoots or something. A goddamn conspiracy to keep him on his toes in his own apartment and in hers.

Everyone always put the paranoia down to the weed. But Harold knew better. Oh yes.

He could see the look in Mister f*cking Sniffes' eyes even then. Mocking him in his receipt of the newest lecture. Smug.

Harold had long since lost track of whatever Lin was saying. He started and looked up when she stomped her foot, huffing. She waved a hand in his face, a dismissive sort of gesture, and stalked off. Muttering.

Harold narrowed his eyes at Mister f*cking Sniffles.

The cat... smiled at him. That was indeed a smile. The cat actually smiled and turned around as gracefully as its rotund size would allow. It proudly displayed its a*shole for a long moment and then thunked to the floor to follow its owner, its furry girth bouncing with the impact.

"I hate you, Mister f*cking Sniffles."

Harold Lee was talking to a cat. F*cking fantastic.

(2005)

His knees ached. Why he could even begin to think of that at this moment, he didn't know. F*ck. F*ck.

Everything stank. He could feel Kumar beside him, apologizing, as terrified as he was. No one could help them. He shut his eyes tight and whimpered, praying for whatever God was out there to send... something. Anything.

When Maria's frantic shaking at his shoulder finally penetrated the nightmare, Harold flinched, his scrambling back from her across the bed hindered by the sheet wound around his legs.

For a long, horrible moment, he honestly didn't understand where he was.

She stared at him, eyes wide. He stared back, but not at her.

Finally, he breathed.

(2007)

The coin spun in front of him, a blur that suited the freefall he felt he was in.

Harold wasn't sure it was possible for a coin to spin that long, but then, he wasn't all that certain it was the coin and not his own dizziness.

Heads. Tails.

Funny the way he was. How when the coin began to tip between heads and tails, he always knew the answer he wanted.

He slapped his hand over the penny and slid it off the table.

He tucked it back in his pocket without looking.

(2007)

"Dude!"

It was a childish game that most stoners probably played in their lives, though Harold and Kumar had left it behind some time back.

Or so Harold thought.

It was more shock than pain; the Bic wasn't hot enough to leave a real burn.

Making a goofy noise of surprise and not-quite-pain, he shoved himself into Kumar.

They laughed as they wrestled for it, fighting dirty, poking each other in the gut and swearing and throwing elbows, too.

It was normal. It was a stoned haze, it was giggling, it was Harold and Kumar, and f*ck, it was a relief.

He managed to pry the blue lighter from Kumar's fingers and tossed it over the other side of the couch. He collapsed back to the floor just to breathe between giggles.

"A*shole."

(2009, on the beach)

It's his hair that Harold always thinks of first, when mapping the man he loves. The slight curve and sweep of it over Scotty's forehead. Two fingers to his forehead and Harold can brush it back as many times as he likes. Always, it finds its way across his brow again.

Any other thing that stubbornly wouldn't keep the place Harold set for it would have driven him crazy with frustration. Not Scotty's hair. Or the man himself, really.

Harold can change it, and often does, when holding Scotty. He takes care to fold strands of dark, straight hair over into a new pattern; the part on the other side, now. He brushes that through; clean slate. He sets about creating a middle part this time, carefully turning strands over in a perfect line. He'll stop and admire his handiwork, but in the end, Harold always reverently turns it back to the original side-parted flow.

Harold doesn't know why it pleases him so deeply. He's comfortable with not knowing.

It's the eyes, next. Brown eyes. Most people looking at Scotty and Harold in passing would see brown eyes and think no more of it. Not Harold. He sees the vast difference in their shades; Scotty's a rich color, Harold's nearly black. He's sure it must be a metaphor for something, but he can't quite grasp what.

Harold's fingertip map would come next to Scotty's nose. Following the straight, defined line of it to glance off the tip of it. From there, Harold would pass his touch over the softness of Scotty's bottom lip. He'd brush his finger over it and down, dipping into the slight valley between lip and chin. Harold adores that dip.

Three fingers, he'd trail the tips of them over chin, down, and now he's mapping the soft expanse of Scotty's skin. Not just the strangely thrilling contrast of pale and dark. The wicked, tingling slide of it against his own, and the smell and taste, too. One of those indefinable qualities that everyone has but you never find identical in the same person; Scotty's is unique in all his world, and it imprints on Harold. He could never, ever find words for his lover's scent, and thinks the day he does is the day he doesn't need words for anything ever again.

(2009, on the beach; last line provided by Scotty's mun)

Constellations. Know any constellations?

Not on Risa.

Can handwave whatever sky you want.

Too easy? Obviously... obviously not. Put a brush between the hand and the wave... Harold might have cried, then, wondering how he could possibly be worth bearing this on his back. He put a tentative hand to his shoulder, brushing fingertips over the edge of the mural he wore. Wondering how he could ever wash it away. He had only one question, whispered. "Why this?" Why for me?

"'Cause ye're beautiful," was the simple, statement-of-fact reply.

(2009, on the beach)

No handwaving for Scotty.

This is a fact of Harold's world, here on this strange beach that until recently, he wasn't sure was real. So long ago on Risa, it was paper that a still-sick Scotty had gone in search of, Harold by his side. Harold never forgot his fondness for the yellowing, rough-edged paper they'd found in a stall.

George's books were all well and good, but... George made them. Whatever cuddle the three of them had shared the other night, there was hurt there that Harold knew, even ignorant though he was of whatever set it off, must still give Scotty pause. So, he broke his rule. Just once.

Wandering out beyond the boundaries of the beach proper, onto the grass, Harold sat cross-legged and looked out into the water.

Constructing the book in his mind, Harold gave minute attention to the texture of the paper, its ability to absorb and hold up under paint or pen or marker. That formed first; two inches worth of paper, and he tinged it just slightly yellow, in the manner of that original stack. Around it, Harold gave form to a cover; smooth leather, in a deep crimson (for even at his most imaginative, Harold is predictable). It was bound in a simple brass spiral spine.

Settling the image in his mind, he waved it into being, fancying that somehow, in this world, he could infuse his love, too.

Closing his eyes for a moment after, he reached out blindly to pick it up. He clutched it to his chest as he got up, headed for home.

(2009, Rhy'Din)


"You want this encased in glass? How?"

"Sort o'... in an octogon. Flat, maybe with some sort o' accent around th' outside, t' catch th' light?"

The mage looked at the dried, pressed leaf carefully, where it sat in his palm. "I think I can manage that. A gold accent?"

"I'll leave it t' yer discretion." Scotty chuckled, shaking his head -- design of artistic natures was never quite his strength. "If ye manage that one, I've a bunch more."

Outside, winter howled. Inside the little shop, it felt warm, as he looked at one of the leaves Harold had given him from the patchwork tree.

"I'll do what I can," the mage said, with a smile. "Check back tomorrow."

Scotty flashed a grin and set down the deposit for it, then headed back out into the snow and cold. Harold's leaf would decorate a different tree, soon, along with all of the others.

(2010, Rhy'Din - Mature)


The first thing he would see, Scotty thought, was his husband-turned-temporary-wife's long hair. The same black as usual, but long and with a soft fringe of black bangs, a lot like they were now. But it would be long, down to mid-back, and he could imagine what it would feel like to hold it, feel it, braid it.

The same skintones; rich and warm, not too dark nor too light, but golden in sunlight. But her nipples would be larger, beautiful and a deeper, richer color still, and he could almost *taste* her in the air as he sucked on them, taste her growing wet for his attention up higher. A musky, unmistakably Harold scent, but with a female flavor.

Her eyes would still be the same dark brown, almost black, but now fringed with thicker lashes. Her nose would be the same, except smaller, but built the same. And her lips...

Oh, her lips.

Soft and dusky-rose, almost exactly the same as usual, but with a fuller bottom lip.

She would be beautiful; well-built, though probably not as tall. Not bony, but not chubby, either. She'd have smaller breasts, and her legs would be strong but shapely. She would wear his t-shirts around, too big, like nightshirts.

And most of all, she would wind around him like a vine; strong and warm and soft and beautiful and still his.

(Mindon Island, April 2010)

He wanted a storm.

Oh, it wasn't a throwback to his emo phase. He wasn't wishing the sky would match the tumult of his thoughts, nor did he want to see the beauty of their little would-be haven tested by nature. There was water within walking distance; trees a shade of brilliant green that seemed to hide them from the outside world; there was sand in front of their temporary home. He didn't want those things disturbed.

He just wanted to see flashed blue-white light bounce off the curved archways that led to each room, and he wanted to feel the rafters thrum and vibrate with thunder. Harold wanted to lay under a pile of covers, warm and safe with his husband, watching that. The bed was big, low to the floor, and looked entirely plush. Like they could swim in the covers.

Or kick them off, when it was warm. Harold would throw the curtains wide, and that fleeting strike of light would bathe his husband's pale skin, banishing dancing shadows for an instant.

There were many little flash-fantasies to skate across his mind at first sight. That kitchen, smallish though it was, looked entirely useful. Well, so much as Harold knew from useful, with kitchens. Enough that he could picture Scotty crafting amazing things on the countertops of something hard and vaguely shiny and black. He could imagine himself a fine nuisance, wrapping arms around and interrupting and probably starting fires just from proximity.

The bathroom was a warm color. Amber tones to the shower that matched the wood that made up the other parts of the house. He couldn't find much affection for showers, at the moment; not with the image of his husband crying in a heap on the floor of their own so clear in his memory. Still, it was beautiful. A circular showerhead, wide and cascading water like rain more than a simple shower.

The mirror was unpleasantly large and well-lit for how they both felt, right now. He had no little fantasies for this part.

The fact that he had it for any repulsed him, on some level. Even these innocent daydreams. He couldn't look at Scotty and expect anything like that. Think it would hold any joy for the man if they could achieve it.

He had to try. This was their chance. Their little haven. He just had to think.

He wondered if Scotty saw any of it, really.

(Rhy'Din, July 2010)


The red ribbon he had first tied into his hikers was a bit frayed now. Crinkled, and unravelled a bit, it looked some the worse for wear, but Scotty still kept it. It was sentimental, for one. It was a part of their history, for another.

He didn't pull it out often, but he could recognize it instantly amongst dozens of other ribbons, some even red, that they had commandeered from Mai's shop for a variety of reasons, most of them erotic.

He pulled it out now, regarding it, and then sat on the edge of the bed holding it, his eyes focused on something distant, far beyond the red cut across his line of sight. Just thinking, and far away. It wasn't all good, nor bad, but both and neither.

Then, after he was done thinking for awhile, he carefully put it back in their drawer.

(Rhy'Din, July 2010)


It was Harold who had persisted to calling him Scotty, even after he was entirely ready to give up his own name in light of the other Scott having it. As though no one else really could. He did not have to compete for it with Harold, just like Harold never had to compete for his own place in Scotty's mind. Sulu had been a non-issue, to the out of place cadet -- all he saw was Harold Lee. He might have been the only man to ever do so, in that universe.

It was Harold who kept reminding him of his name, without ever realizing it. And without even fully intending to at the time, Scotty reclaimed it as his. It was his. It didn't matter if someone else had it. He'd earned it.

These days, it seemed, he spent a lot of time looking backwards. And often, he wanted to claw into his own chest and drag furrows over his heart to match those he left on Harold's wrists. His own imagination was as cruel as reality; he didn't need details to paint horrible, vivid pictures. It was often that he felt that anger, that helpless rage, that burning desire to lash out at everything, including himself, until pain had been paid back in pain.

But it wasn't always.

Sometimes, he looked back and he saw things he had not realized then. Like his own name, so easily spoken by Harold, reaffirming his identity when his own nature made him want to give it up, walk away, become a nameless, faceless, forgotten sort of soul. To escape back into the wilderness. A lost thing, with no identity and just his own breath.

But Harold called him by name. And without ever realizing it, without ever knowing how much it mattered, Scotty took back his rights to an identity. But now, with something important added.

He was Harold's Scotty.

(Rhy'din, July 2010)

It was funny how he still had Fia's little coupon from Christmas.

It was tucked in one of their photo albums. He had always fully intended to redeem it, but he was strange in wanting to keep it. That first Christmas had been overwhelming; people had come out with gifts for them when Harold honestly hadn't known they'd cared. He was touched for himself, but he was... even more gratified to know that people saw Scotty as someone worth loving like Harold did.

The tree had been such a damn thoughtful gift that he found he didn't want to give away the scrap of paper that represented it. Not even to have the tree.

One day he'd probably just go down to the greenhouse and buy one.

(Rhy'Din, July 2010 - Mature)



The clouds were alternating shades of deep, dark, angry grey and above that was a pale silver. A storm rolled down over them, and even made the horses a little nervous. And they were half-naked under the warm rain, having been interrupted on their beach blanket in their lazy lovemaking.

Scotty sat behind Harold on Steve, the mare with their pack walking behind obediently. He was sleepy, happy, warm and being rained on, and his husband's wet skin still felt exquisite.

He wasn't entirely sure where his almost perpetual state of horny had come from, but he sure as Hell wasn't about to go and look that gift horse in the mouth.

...for that matter, he wasn't gonna go looking this one in the mouth, either.

With a drowsy, pleased little hum, he slipped a hand into Harold's shorts.

(Rhy'din, 2010, Mature)

Okay, so maybe it was just for nostalgia's sake.

After the lightsaber dick incident - and it was an incident, if only because of how f*cking hard Harold laughed - Harold had developed a strange kind of draw to one of the little mess of condoms Scotty had brought back. He'd never enjoyed wearing them; they were clammy and annoying and dulled sensation and made his stuff itch after it was over. Still. It was like the crappy weed he used to smoke in college; sure, it was cheap and nasty, but it reminded him of an age.

So, it was one morning's erection that he figured he'd take advantage of. It was already waning when he snatched a green one - for Harold was not a Sith lord in his childhood dreams - stroking himself to bring it back to full hardness.

Standing in the bathroom, he rolled that f*cker over his dick, pinching the tip in an old, familiar motion.

...oh yeah. Now he remembered how much he hated these things. He gave himself a lazy stroke or two, hissing out for the sensation.

Cold latex began to warm to the skin of his erection, and he glanced at the mirror, giving his reflection a commiserating look.

He unrolled the thing and tossed it into the trash, wandering back to their room to poke his husband.