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"Try catching the deluge in a goddamn paper cup," Harvey roused, his breaths wheezing out between the words.
Mike took a step back, bumping against the arm of the couch. He raised his arms in front of him, between them, trying for soothing—Harvey's narrowed eyes said he fell spectacularly short—and pitched his voice low, "Breathe with me, mirror me. In and out. It's okay, Harvey. We got this. I got you.”
Little by little, Mike got closer again, until his raised arms slipped under Harvey's and around his rigid middle. He gripped the back of his shirt, the high-count thread of the fabric sleek against his fingers. He brushed his chin against Harvey's stiff collar, searching his mind for something to say, anything, a good quote from a James Bond or Miami Vice or even Community—at this point, he could use some good old flippant Jeff Winger icebreaker—but he didn't need to. With a rush of air, Harvey sagged in his arms. His chest rose and fell right against Mike's and the frozen tip of his nose and flushed shell of his ear slid against Mike's neck. His grip on Mike's hips was tight, painfully so, but Mike was more than okay with that. Being Harvey's anchor. Feeling him relax, closer than he'd ever been.
"Mike—"
Mike shushed him, moving just enough to tilt his head and kiss Harvey's cheekbone, trembling with the emotion of being allowed to do so but terrified by the tears he tasted there. “I'm here.”
“Don't leave me,” Harvey said, his voice now a shadow of the previous roar. Fragile.
Mike clutched at him harder, staring into his wide, shining eyes, and kissed him. Never.