**************************************************** Disclaimer time once again!  One-hundred-and-eighth verse same as the first . . . everybody *sing*: I don't own these characters, (chorus) Paramount does! I don't own this venue, (chorus) Paramount does! I am making no money off of this, (chorus) Paramount does not either! This story will involve sex between two men, aka: slash, but not just yet. If that is *not* your cup of tea, sweet as it is, then don't read it! (simple, ain't it??) Feedback is *very* much appreciated, and always answered. Flames will be passed around to friends and chuckled over.  :) Hankie warning.  I mean it. This is the sequel to 'Adversaries', 'Allies', 'Acknowledgement', 'Argument', 'Advantage', 'Attrition', 'Awakened', 'Assertiveness', 'Absolution', 'Adored', and 'Avalanche'.   'Anguish' by Amirin **************************************************** Quiet.  Too quiet.  No talks under the covers til all hours. No laughter. No warm, strong arms around him. No loving heart beating under his ear. No smiles returned to help him meet the day.  No hands holding his tightly. No sighs.  No moans. No soft whispers.  No tender kisses.  Nothing. Nothing but pain and hurt and anger and grief and a genuine wondering as to why he hadn't died, too.  He should have. How was he supposed to live like this?  In a vacuum as black and cold as the space surrounding the ship? How?  And, more importantly, why the hell should he have to? Harry moved listlessly around his quarters, almost snorting at the notion that they were equal parts prison and sanctuary.  And messy. It was too hard to care about keeping things neat and 'Fleet-orderly when the universe basically sucked.   He began a half-hearted effort, picking things up and then dropping them again when cold, hard futility rose up against him and sent him reeling back onto the sofa.  After a few mindless, empty moments, he dimly noticed something was pressing into his thigh.  He moved slightly and lifted up to dig the padd out of the cushions.  Flicking it on, he stared at it in silence, tears filling his eyes and not just because he wasn't blinking. "When last we left our intrepid heroes . . ." he murmured, as his throat closed up around the words and the padd flew from his hand to smash against the wall across the room. Clenched fists were raised to his face and he turned into the illusory heat of the cushion behind him, curled himself protectively into a ball, and cried.                      <<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>> "You've got to do something about Harry." Chakotay slowly turned around in his chair and looked at the Chief Engineer quizzically. "Why?  What's happening?" B'Elanna swallowed a growl and moved further into her former captain's office.  "Dammit, you *know* what's happening, Chakotay.  The same thing that happened when you and Tom broke up, only about a thousand times worse." Chakotay sighed and ran his hands over his face, taking a moment to compose himself before speaking. "Okay, what's he doing?" B'Elanna licked her lips and threw herself into one of the chairs in front of Chakotay's desk. "It's what he *isn't* doing, actually, that has me so worried. And I'm not the only one." The commander took a careful breath and leaned forward over his desk.  "All right, what *isn't* he doing?" "He isn't getting over it, Chakotay.  He rarely leaves his quarters anymore, but apparently can't handle going to Tom's, either.  And he won't let anyone else move into them. He's put lockouts on the man's old holoprograms.  No one can make changes, or deletions, or anything without his permission, which he won't give.  He looks like he hasn't eaten or slept since . . . since Tom . . ." Chakotay slowly moved around his desk and slid into the chair next to B'Elanna's.  He knew from personal experience that offering sympathy wouldn't help matters any, but at least he could be there. "I thought half-Klingons didn't cry," he murmured, taking her hand in his to try and unclench the shaking fist. "Yeah, well, half-humans do," she shot back with a harsh sniff and a toss of her head, like she was annoyed with herself for the loss of control. But it still didn't stop her from clutching Chakotay's hand like a lifeline. The commander took a deep breath.  "I don't know if I'm the best person to try and help Harry," he admitted quietly. "Look, I know how things were between you and Tom, I was there, remember? I know it might be awkward, now, but . . ." she paused when Chakotay shook his head. "That's not what I meant, B'Elanna," the older man leaned back wearily, eyes on the floor in front of him. "Chakotay?  What is it?" Torres asked quietly, turning around slightly to face him.  Her breath caught when he looked up and she realized that the same pain she'd seen permanently engraving itself on Harry's face was now being echoed in Chakotay's eyes. "How am I supposed to counsel Harry on giving Tom up to memory? How can I tell him it's time to get over it and go on with his life?  How can I offer him any advice at all when I can't even get *myself* to listen to it?" He stood up to pace the small room, but only made one pass before stopping in front of her again. "I haven't been able to deal with it, B'Elanna.  I keep thinking it'll get better, it'll pass, one of these mornings I'll wake up and remember not to look forward to seeing Tom in the mess hall or on the bridge, to reading his reports and talking over dinner . . ." he swallowed heavily and slumped back against his desk.  "I can't do it.  How can I expect Harry to?" B'Elanna's eyes darted away for a moment before she pulled them back to her commander.  "I think Harry needs to know that," she murmured.  "That he *isn't* alone.  That someone understands what he's going through.  He needs you, Chakotay.  And I think you need him, too.  Maybe the two of you can help each other." Chakotay sighed and looked up at her with a sad, wry grin of acknowledgement. "Where is he?" B'Elanna snorted gently.  "Same place he's been for the last few weeks.  In his quarters."                     <<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>> "Is this seat taken?" Harry's only response to the gentle question was a ragged sigh, but Chakotay joined him on the window bench anyway, turning slightly to look at the stars outside. "It's not getting any easier, is it?" he asked the ensign quietly. "No," Harry answered, his voice harsher than usual, like Chakotay could even remember what 'usual' used to be for the man. "I glad I'm not the only one," he whispered at the stars streaking past, meeting Harry's bloodshot eyes when he felt them watching him. "You, too?" Harry asked, sitting up a little straighter. "Yes," Chakotay admitted, before looking back out the window.  "Me, too." "Everyone seems to think I should be ready to just forget him and go on with my life, by now," Harry complained bitterly.  "But, he *was* my life." "I know." "And if one more person tells me that I'm not the one who died, I swear I'll end up in the brig for throwing them into the nearest *bulkhead*." Chakotay's only reply was a faint grin and he wouldn't have bothered with that if it hadn't been for Harry.  They were both silent for a moment until he ventured to speak again. "It's been two months," he said with customary softness. "Don't you think I *know* that?" Harry barked at him. "Don't you think . . .?"  The commander shook his head quickly. "Harry, no, you don't understand.  It's been two months *today*, exactly," Chakotay explained, his voice gentle. "There's no timetable for grief; I wasn't telling you to get over him and move on.  I just wanted you to know that I'm keeping track, too." "I can't talk to anyone about him," Harry said, beautiful brown eyes drowning in fresh tears.  "It's like they don't want to be reminded that he was ever here, when it feels more like he never left," he whispered, leaning forward, crossing his legs, and resting his arms on his thighs after impatiently wiping his cheeks. "It took me two weeks to get back into the habit of washing my own hair in the shower, because he wasn't there to do it for me, any more," Harry went on, voice and body both shaking.  "I still find my hand moving to hit my commbadge to talk to him. I catch myself apologizing to an empty room every time I play a wrong note on my clarinet.  I reach for him in my sleep and when I don't find him, I wake up and ask the computer where he is. Even now, I hear myself reading aloud to him, and the man's been dead for two months. Dammit, Chakotay . . ."  And he couldn't go on, sorrow and anger choking off his voice as his head dropped into his hands.  After a quiet moment, a soft touch on his head brought it up again and he saw his own grief reflected in the commander's eyes.  Strangled, silenced, but the intensity of it made him ache inside with a pain not his own. "You know," he breathed and watched Chakotay draw a shuddering breath right before he was carefully pulled into the older man's arms. "I know," Chakotay said, his voice almost as ravaged as Harry's.  "I know. And it hurts . . ."  He was rendered mute by strong arms quickly coming around him in desperation, Harry's chin on his shoulder as the ensign cried. "Gods, it hurts so much," Harry rasped out, sniffing.  "And I can't see it getting better any time soon.  NO one else understands . . ." "*I* do, Harry.  I understand.  And I want you to listen to me," Chakotay forced out between tears of his own.  "Any time you want to talk about him, cry over him, rage at the Fates for taking him away from you, you come to me." He pulled back slightly to bring his forehead against Harry's, holding the face of the man Tom loved so well between his hands. "You find me, Harry, and we'll talk and we'll cry and we'll rage together.  I mean it.  You hear me?" "You, too," Harry insisted roughly, as warm fingers brushed ever more tears away.  "I'm not the only one who lost him . . ."  And he couldn't talk for crying, his head resting on Chakotay's shoulder once again. "We'll find a way through this, Harry, I promise you. Together," Chakotay whispered against hair even darker than his own.  "We'll find a way."                      <<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>