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Reason 1: Mike’s Barren Pantry in Fucking Brooklyn.
"Goddammit, Rookie, open the door, it's freezing out here!" Harvey hated Brooklyn. Manhattan—it's glamorous, it never sleeps, it's a place of magic and money. Brooklyn, though, represented every horrid thing about New York City to Harvey. He hated the cramped buildings, the traffic, the trash on the sidewalks. More than that, though, he hated Mike's awful apartment building. No concierge, no elevators, no heat in the hallways. Barely a roof. There is no sensible reason he should be inside and still freezing his ass off.
"I'm working on it—I can't feel my fingers,” Mike gritted out as he fumbled with his keys, missing the lock several times, “it's a little difficult to be dexterous when you're staving off frostbite, Harvey." Mike finally got the knob to turn and the two men crashed into the tiny apartment, both bundled up in bulky woolen coats that made the entryway feel even more cramped than usual.
"You should've packed gloves in one of those pockets, Mike. Haven't I taught you to always be prepared by now?" Harvey's voice was a shivering breath as warm air finally filled his lungs. He flashed his palms at Mike, both gloved in buttery black leather, with a smug look and rosy cheeks. Harvey didn’t notice Mike watching him with a fondness, too focused on shaking the snow out of his hair and off his boots.
"I didn't expect that meeting to run so long that the roads would close and we’d have to walk here," Mike shot back, rolling his eyes as he blew hot air into his palms to warm up. "Do you think that Ray will be able to pick you up tonight?" Mike asked, bumping into Harvey as he struggled to get out of his coat and suit jacket. Harvey placed a gloved hand on his shoulder to steady him without looking up from his own boots. Harvey pretended that the warmth blooming over his skin was just due to Mike’s body heat.
"He better. I wouldn't be caught dead sleeping on your couch."
—
Three hours later, Harvey was not dead. And yet, he was preparing to sleep on Mike’s couch.
Outside, the snow had only thickened and was still falling fast. Inside, Harvey had begrudgingly borrowed a pair of sweats and a hoodie from Mike. They were both warming up with some (to Harvey's horror) instant noodles on Mike's small couch. Harvey wasn't heartless; he wouldn’t ask Ray to put himself at risk in this weather, but that didn't stop him from complaining. "You really don't have anything else to eat other than this junk?" Harvey asked, prodding at his noodles with a fork.
"Sorry I don't have organic motor oil or whatever your robot body runs on," Mike scoffed around a bite of noodles.
Harvey rolled his eyes, finally submitting to his fate and starting to eat. "You're just jealous because I'm ten years older than you and in ten times better shape." He grabbed the remote off the coffee table, taking the moment to flex his arms showily, and flicked through the channels until a baseball game lit up the screen.
"Only ten years? More like fifteen, grandpa." Mike smirked, shoving Harvey's shoulder as the other man showed off, "you're literally wearing a sweatshirt, I can't even see the guns that you allegedly have." Harvey didn’t know that Mike was lying through his teeth.
"Who said anything about guns? Sounds like an admission to me." A smug grin split Harvey's face as he shoved Mike in return. He hoped Mike didn’t notice the blush that had returned to Harvey's cheeks.
"What are you? Some kind of lawyer?" Mike teased, a laugh creeping into the edge of his voice. "Careful—careful! You're gonna make me spill my ramen, old man!"
As he laughed with his associate, Harvey realized he was no longer cold. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
Reason 2: Mike’s Shitty Couch
Harvey did not expect to be cooped up in Mike's apartment for four days. Harvey had never missed four days of work. He'd been trying to keep up with his emails, but the internet had been shoddy from the storm. He never had this problem in his condo in Manhattan with its far more efficient utility repair. Fucking Brooklyn.
Mike had run out of briefs to review two days into their captivity, and at this point, Harvey had given up on productivity—in large part due to his war with Mike's awful couch. The first night, it wasn't so bad. He was only slightly too tall for it to be comfortable, and Mike had given him his extra quilt from his grandmother, so he was nice and warm.
The first morning, though, Harvey was reminded of his age. He'd slept wrong and was left with a sore shoulder and an aching back. He’d been increasingly and unintentionally snappy to Mike due to his discomfort, but the younger man didn’t seem put off. Plus, ever since Mike walked in and found Harvey trying desperately to stretch his back into submission, he hadn't stopped making fun of him.
What Harvey didn’t know, though, is that first morning, when Mike walked out of his room to see the other man in downward dog with his perfect ass in the air, the holy visual had almost knocked the wind from Mike’s lungs.
Each night was murder on Harvey’s back, and it was starting to get annoying. The Alieve he’d found in Mike’s cabinet on the first morning was barely touching it anymore. He didn’t complain too much to Mike, because he knew that nothing could be done, but he was dying for his California king mattress. He saw it in his dreams (which was honestly kind of cruel for his brain to do). He hadn’t felt this out of shape in years. Harvey resolved to buy Mike a new couch when this was all over, just in case he had the misfortune of sleeping on it again.
By this morning, the fourth morning waking up to pain, to acute onset arthritis of the back, Harvey was fed up. It was only about 3:30 AM, but he knew there was no god he could pray to that would allow him to sleep longer. He couldn’t go to the gym to stretch, he couldn’t run—without getting hypothermia, that is. He couldn’t even call his massage therapist, Clara, who made house calls to his office and his condo. She was snowed in too. He’d tried yesterday.
Harvey dragged his hand down his face as he stared at Mike’s ceiling, trying to gather the mental fortitude to drag his body into motion. At least to a sitting position. “Mind over matter. Come on, Specter,” he gritted through clenched teeth, trying to get his elbows underneath him. He took a deep breath, engaged his abs, and gave it all he had, including an embarrassing combination of a groan and a grunt that reminded him of his grandfather trying to stand up. The pain in his mid back shot like lightning down his entire spine, aftershocks wracking his body as he fell back down onto the evil sofa. He grimaced, holding his breath for a second, hoping Mike hadn’t heard.
When he didn’t hear stirring from Mike’s bedroom, Harvey tried again—this time, the noise that escaped him was more of a pained cry, like he’d been kicked. This time, he didn’t have time to do damage control, because Mike was already rushing out of his door in his pajama bottoms and bare feet. Mike’s bedhead was non-euclidean. Cowlicks formed an impossible geometric aberration in blond. Even through the pain, Harvey noticed the concerned look on Mike’s face. The fondness that swelled in Harvey’s chest made him feel like an oxymoron, floaty and achy all at once.
“Harvey—are you okay?! What happened?” Mike was across the room and standing over him in barely three seconds, visually examining his body from tip to toe before he could be stopped. In spite of himself, a smile tugged at the corner of Harvey’s mouth.
“Yeah, I’m okay—I,” he sighed, letting his hand fall over his face in resignation. He knew he needed the help, but he felt so old for asking. “I need you to help me up. Don’t laugh.”
Mike did not listen, his laugh already ringing in the room, a grin splitting his face. “Really? Jeez, gramps, didn’t realize that you already needed a live-in nurse.” Mike laughed out, moving to grab Harvey’s hand anyway.
Harvey pulled his arm away, further covering his face to hide his blooming embarrassment. “No, nevermind, you ruined it,” he groaned, mentally preparing himself to try again without showing his discomfort.
“No—no, okay, I’m sorry, geezer. So sensitive.” Even without looking, Harvey could hear Mike rolling his eyes, the dumb grin still plastered on his face.
“No. I got it.” Harvey snapped. He didn’t move, despite his assurances. He knew, deep in his back muscles, that he, in fact, did not have it. He just didn’t want Mike to see. There was a pause, like Mike was waiting for him to try. He didn’t.
“Seriously, Harvey. I’ve got you.” Mike’s voice had softened, his teasing inflection melted away. Harvey still didn’t move, even though he wanted nothing more than to see Mike’s face—he knew if he did, his face would contort in pain and give him away. “Do I need to get out the nurse outfit for you to let me help? I’ll do it.”
Harvey scoffed, a smile spreading behind his hands. The (godsent) mental picture of Mike in a nurse outfit aside, of course Mike would be able to draw a laugh out of him even with him feeling as sore as he did. Harvey would never get tired of him. “No, that isn’t necessary,” Harvey laughed, finally raising his arms so Mike could grab his wrists. The feeling of Mike’s lithe, deft fingers, encircling his wrists gave him a headrush.
Mike caught Harvey’s gaze and nodded reassuringly. “Okay, we try on three.”
“One,” Mike said slowly as Harvey screwed his eyes shut and took a deep breath.
“Two!” Michael Ross was fundamentally a dishonest man.
Or at least, that was what Harvey thought while he made a sound, nothing short of a surprised yelp, as the younger man pulled him into a fully standing position before their agreed upon cue. Harvey’s eyes shot open, the pain making him ball his fists so hard that his fingernails bit into his palms.
“Like ripping off a bandaid,” Mike said proudly as he dropped Harvey’s arms.
Harvey took a few breaths to quell the electrical fire eating his back. He didn’t realize how long he’d been standing stock still, willing the pain into submission, until Mike gently touched his forearm, that sweet concern back in his tone. “You’re actually really hurting, aren’t you? I didn’t realize the couch would be that bad for you…I’m sorry.” Mike looked like he didn’t know what to do next, and he felt absolutely horrible.
“It’s fine, kid, I’m okay,” Harvey forced out through his firmly clenched jaw. “I’m just not as flexible with my sleeping arrangements as I used to be,” he tried to joke, but it looked like Mike wasn’t buying it.
“Have you tried to call Clara?” Mike asked, eyebrows still furrowed, hand still steady on Harvey’s forearm.
“Yeah, everyone’s snowed in just as much as we are,” Harvey sighed, trying to make his muscles cooperate and carry him to the kitchen. “Besides, she doesn’t come to Brooklyn.”
Mike’s eyes searched his body, like he was looking helplessly for which bolt he needed to tighten, which joint he needed to oil, for Harvey to feel better. Harvey felt warmer under Mike’s intense, roaming gaze than he’d felt in days. He tried not to squirm.
Suddenly, Mike’s eyes lit up with an idea, his hand left Harvey’s arm—not without a short squeeze, and he ran into his bathroom. “I’ve got Tiger Balm!” Mike called, “Grammy loved this stuff on her knuckles—just give me a second to find it!”
After a couple minutes of cabinets banging and Harvey fruitlessly calling to Mike that he didn’t need this and would be fine, Mike emerged—even more ruffled, somehow—with a tiny glass jar. “Have you tried this stuff on your back? It’s really good for inflammation.”
Harvey’s protests melted in his mouth from Mike’s thoughtfulness alone. “Yeah, it’s great after a hard bout in the ring,” Harvey nodded, reaching for the jar.
“No, get your hands away, Specter. With how your shoulder’s acting up, there’s no way you can reach your own back. I got it.” Mike was smiling like he’d found a break in a case for Harvey to exploit. Like he wasn’t joking. Like he’d fixed the problem. It was almost too much for Harvey to imagine.
“I can do it, you don’t have to—”
“I don’t have to do anything. We aren’t at the office. I want to.” Something imperceptible flashed in Mike’s eyes before he quickly shifted facial gears into a teasing grin again, “I don’t have a masseuse outfit, but I’m sure, if I must, the nurse one will suffice.”
Harvey’s knees went weak. He wasn’t sure if Mike was kidding or implying that, thirty feet away, in his pitifully small closet, there existed a sexy nurse outfit. Harvey couldn’t afford to let his physical need to know the answer show on his face. “Uh—” he faltered, with a weak smile that he hoped expressed pain rather than how flustered he felt. “Okay, fine. No need to threaten me with a good time." Harvey rolled his eyes, "You'll probably have to help me to the bed, though.”
Reason 3: Mike’s Child-Sized Mattress
Minutes later, Harvey had been shuffled across the apartment and was deposited face down on Mike’s bed. It didn’t compare to Harvey’s multi-thousand dollar Purple mattress, but it did feel better than the demonic IKEA loveseat he’d been suffering. Mike had briefly left him to futz around in his bathroom, so Harvey had very few barriers preventing him from luxuriating in Mike’s lingering scent on his pillow. Being cooped up in Mike’s apartment had made it frustratingly difficult for Harvey to ignore how his little crush had grown.
Mike padded back into the room. He then climbed onto the bed, dumping several bottles next to them. Harvey didn’t realize he was holding his breath until it hitched when Mike sat on his thighs and pushed his hoodie up around his shoulders, exposing his back to the cold air. Harvey buried his face further into the pillow. “I’m just gonna—you have a mid back and a shoulder thing, right? Is that where you’re hurting now?” Mike asked from above him, sounding careful but not hesitant. Harvey knew that Mike’s eidetic memory ensured he never forgot anything, but Mike remembering those little details made his bones warm.
“Yeah, same place,” he mumbled into the pillow, nodding his head. With his confirmation, Mike got to work. He didn’t fumble, didn’t ghost his hands over Harvey’s skin, even though this was officially the most skin-to-skin contact they’d ever shared. He got in there. Harvey didn’t realize how strong Mike’s hands could be—the kid had been a bike messenger, not a weight lifter—but he supposed that with determination comes a firm grip. Harvey’s mind was wandering as to what else his very capable hands would be strong enough to handle when Mike dug the heel of his hand right into his worst muscle knot. Before he could help it, before he could bite it back, Harvey moaned. Like, really moaned. He at least had the pillow to muffle it, but it was unmistakable. Not to mention the blush he could feel creeping up his neck, making his ears hot.
Mike faltered almost imperceptibly, but didn’t mention it. He started working that spot harder. If Harvey didn’t know any better, he’d think Mike was trying to draw more humiliating sounds from his throat. He couldn’t help it. With the way the salve heated his skin and how the pain was melting under Mike’s fingers, Harvey couldn’t stop the quiet breaths and groans escaping him. He, at least, avoided any more loud utterances, but Mike was making it difficult. He was working his fingers with a precision usually reserved for contract review. Mike wasn’t saying anything, wasn’t laughing. He was just rubbing, kneading, and playing Harvey’s body like a symphony.
Mike worked his middle back for what felt like hours. Harvey felt like jello by the time Mike scooted up his thigh and leaned forward to get at his shoulder. While Mike’s hands continued to be magic, Harvey’s mind was very suddenly elsewhere. Specifically, centered on the bulge that was firmly pressed into his ass. Only their pajama pants separated him from Mike. It was too little and too much fabric all at once. Harvey felt his brain short circuit with hypotheticals, with the electricity lighting up his body at every point of contact between them.
If Mike was someone else. Not his associate, nor his (admittedly) best friend, he would have acted. Harvey had a well-earned reputation as a casanova, a smooth operator, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. The moment was too fragile. If he breathed wrong, the entire room and its occupants would atomize into fantasy. What else could explain the way Mike was touching him like he was reveling in the opportunity?
Harvey buried his head in the pillow and focused on anything else to keep his composure. Baseball stats didn’t work, neither did contract law (after all, the recent Wells Fargo v. HCL Technologies verdict was pretty titillating). Nothing could distract him from Mike’s hands, the way Mike was breathing. There was something about hearing Mike, alive and real, above him that made Harvey crazy. When the massage ended, he’d have to make an excuse as to why he couldn’t stand up, like some sort of teenager. Christ. Harvey decided the only way out was tactful deception. He pretended to fall asleep.
Mike kept working on his shoulder until Harvey’s muscles had been rubbed into relaxation, before he slowed his movements to a stop and whispered, “Harvey?” Harvey stilled and kept his breathing even through the pause that followed. Mike clicked his tongue fondly and carefully climbed off Harvey, so as not to wake him.
“Must’ve been really tired,” Mike mumbled, taking a moment to rest his hand on Harvey’s hair. It was only by the grace of God that his breath didn’t noticeably hitch. Mike stayed for a heartbeat longer, like he was drinking in the last drops of the moment before putting the cup away, then quietly padded from the bedroom into the bathroom.
Harvey let himself relax into the mattress (his back really did feel better) and before he knew it, he wasn’t pretending anymore.
—
In his sleep, Harvey scooted forward into warmth, burying his face in the softness in front of him. His arms snugged around it. He slept better than he had in days.
—
Harvey woke slowly—until he woke up fast. The sun pouring through the windows bathed the room in brightness. He stretched like a cat, only for his limbs to hit an unexpectedly cushiony, heavy, sleepy form. He opened his eyes with a start. He was spooning Mike. Not partially, not shyly. He had drawn Mike into his chest tightly, had his nose buried in the top of his head—even had his leg thrown over his associate’s waist. Harvey didn’t have room to move away, even if he had wanted to. The two six-foot tall men more than filled the tiny full-sized mattress. At least he had plausible deniability, and there was no real harm: Mike was asleep. Probably didn’t even know. Or, so Harvey convinced himself as he nestled in closer. He was so fucked.
+1: Mike Ross Himself
Harvey couldn’t remember the last time he spent five consecutive days with the same person and hadn’t come out on the other side wanting to sue said person to death, or just kill them with his bare hands. Probably because he’d never spent this long with someone else, period. He’d always clawed out alone time when the other person’s voice started sounding like a throttle on his headache engine. And he would have (old habits die hard) except, the headache never came.
The snow plows had finally come through yesterday afternoon, so Mike’s apartment was underscored with the normal Saturday sounds of Brooklyn motorists and buses. Harvey hadn’t called Ray, probably wouldn’t until Monday morning to take them both to work. When Mike was curled up on his chest yesterday during The Polar Express, he’d offered to call a cab so as not to drag Ray out into the cold, but Harvey had declined.
He watched Mike move in the kitchen, how he timed the readiness of the scrambled eggs with the waffles popping out of the toaster. The domesticity was foreign, but welcome. Mike made it invigorating just by being himself. As Mike slid his plate in front of him, he caught Harvey’s lips in a slow, yet chaste, kiss. They had shared several yesterday (and several more last night), but the novelty hadn’t worn off yet. Harvey didn’t think it ever would.
“Didn’t know you were running a breakfast and bed here,” he murmured as he smiled against Mike’s lips.
Mike rolled his eyes as he pulled away and sat down, “I’m not. This is all for you, no vacancies otherwise.” Mike grinned and made a grand, sarcastic gesture out into his shoebox-sized apartment.
Harvey smiled as he took a bite of his food. It tasted better because Mike had made it. “How generous.” Harvey leaned in close, a teasing glint in his eye, “what’s the price of a room per night?”
Mike wiggled his eyebrows mischievously. “I think you already kno—hey! You can’t tackle me, breakfast is not a contact sport! You do already know—Harvey! No fair, you’re bigger than me! Stop that!”
There was no place Harvey would rather be.