There was a growing, low-level unease in Harold Lee's being, born from watching his fiance spar in that arena.

Laughter, smiles, wooden swords and Harold had watched with a smile on his face, unable to entirely identify the dread taking hold in his mind.

It was somewhere between a block and a parry that he landed on it; he was flinching. Instinctive. There was a man swinging a weapon at the person who would be Harold's husband, and not only was Harold sitting back and doing nothing, he was smiling. Watching.

He'd always done nothing. Just... held on for the aftermath. Fighting meant sharp, yellow shades of pain; it meant lasting consequences and hurt and looking at his lover's body, purple bruises blossoming, and aching to take the marks for himself. It meant raging and violent urges and putting them all frustratingly down at Scotty's request.

Harold had fought to reconcile these memories with the smile on his lover's face. He mostly won. Mostly.

Today, there was a quiet storm in Harold's mind. It had been sparring. Practice. Fun. It wasn't dockhands leaving bloodied marks across Scotty's head; pink disinfectant, beading in the sand. It wasn't Hikaru Sulu; a red, sickening bite mark that had been all Harold's fault. Nor was it Pavel Chekov; bruises colouring Scotty's pale skin, and Harold crying for curls as a trophy.

It wasn't Bly O'Shea holding a phaser on his fiance, stealing away Harold's partner, their security, and some of Harold's sanity. And no small amount of Harold's pride in himself. All for a stupid party invitation.

That had broken a part of Harold somewhere deep that still hadn't mended. He couldn't find all the pieces.

It didn't make sense. It was none of those things. It shouldn't have set Harold to thinking this way.

Ugh. He just couldn't quite still the winds of his mind, and the swirl of thought was no one to which he knew how to lend words. Not blowing a gale; just... gusts, now and then, when he thought he'd calmed and let it pass, it kicked up again. Stirring it. A dust devil.