Work Text:
It started with Mike reading an article online.
The article was called "10 Ways to Show a Coworker You Like Them." Mike found it by accident — he was actually looking for a mac and cheese recipe, but the internet had other plans. The internet was right.
First method: Give sincere compliments.
"Harvey," Mike said, walking into the office like he was about to defend a dissertation. "You have a very... beautiful tie."
Harvey looked up from his papers.
"Thanks," he said. "Did you finally start learning about fashion? I'll give you this one if you throw out that skinny monstrosity of yours."
Mike realized this was not the effect he'd been going for.
Second method: Pay attention to details. Tell him you like his cologne.
Mike approached Harvey in the elevator. Deliberately close. So close that Harvey thought Mike might have vision problems.
"You smell good," Mike said.
Harvey blinked.
"You smell like..." — Mike paused. He needed something poetic. Something that would stick in the soul. — "...documents."
Silence.
"Documents," Harvey repeated.
"Fresh ones. Like they just came off the printer."
"You're telling me I smell like paper."
"It's a compliment."
"Mike, I smell like paper because I work with paper. All day. Every day. It's an occupational hazard. Hardly a compliment."
"I mean — I like it."
Harvey looked at him. For so long that Mike had time to think: What if he kisses me right now?
"You need to go outside more and get some fresh air," Harvey said, and stepped out of the elevator.
Mike stood there. Feeling like he'd done something wrong again.
Harvey didn't think about it for the rest of the day.
Well, he did. But not on purpose. Mike's words just got stuck in his head like a skipping record.
"He's just an idiot," he said out loud. To his empty office. The emptiness didn't argue.
But was he?
Mike wasn't an idiot. Mike was a genius. Mike could talk to anyone — clients, judges, even Louis. He could charm a stone statue if he wanted to. Harvey had seen Mike convince the meanest secretary in the building to bring him coffee in under five minutes.
And with Harvey, he talked about the smell of documents.
Harvey leaned back in his chair.
"Oh god," he said.
Harvey didn't read articles. Harvey read Mike. Harvey knew how to flirt.
He did it unconsciously, like breathing.
They were sitting in a café. Harvey ordered Mike's favorite coffee — with hazelnut syrup and an extra shot of espresso — because "you look like you didn't sleep."
"How do you know what I like?" Mike asked.
"You told me. You were drunk and explaining why syrups are 'not for sweet tooths, but for connoisseurs.'"
Mike opened his mouth. Closed it.
"And you remembered?"
"I remember everything about you."
Mike blushed.
"Was that flirting?" he asked.
"That was a statement of fact."
"But it sounded like flirting."
"Maybe."
"Are you flirting with me?"
"I'm communicating."
"Then why are my knees shaking?"
Harvey looked at his knees, then at his eyes.
"Maybe because you're not listening to me. You're trying to win a game we're not even playing."
Mike wanted to say something clever. Instead, he took a sip of coffee and burned his tongue.
Harvey rolled his eyes and smirked.
Donna had been watching this circus for two weeks.
She saw Mike try to "accidentally" touch Harvey's hand and knock over a glass of water instead. She saw Harvey put a hand on Mike's shoulder and say "good job," and Mike walked around with red ears for half a day.
She saw Mike give Harvey a cactus.
"It's a symbol of our love," Mike explained. "It's prickly on the outside, but inside... well, it's a cactus. Inside it has water. I mean... feelings. I mean..."
"You're giving me a plant that could kill me if I touch it," Harvey said.
"It's a metaphor."
"It's a cactus."
"Yes."
"I'll put it on my desk."
"Really?"
"So you know I appreciate your... metaphors."
Donna, who had heard the whole thing from the next room, walked in without knocking.
"You're both idiots," she said.
"Good morning, Donna," Harvey replied.
"We're just... communicating."
"You're flirting," Donna cut in. "And you're worse at it than Louis when he tries to be cool."
Harvey and Mike looked at each other.
"Are we flirting?" Mike asked.
"You told me I smell like documents."
"That was a compliment!"
"That was a reason to call an ambulance."
Donna covered her face with her hands.
"I'm leaving," she said. "When you figure it out — I'll be in my office. Crying."
She left.
Mike looked at Harvey.
Harvey looked at him. One second. Two.
"You look good today," he said.
"That's not flirting, that's a cliché."
"You look good today, and I want you to know that I noticed. I noticed because you're special."
Mike blinked.
"That was..." he started.
"Yes," Harvey said. "That was flirting."
"Now I feel awkward."
"That's normal."
"Can I go get some water?"
"Go."
Mike stood up and was about to leave.
"You'll really put the cactus on your desk?"
Harvey looked at the prickly plant in its pot.
"I'll put it there," he said. "But if it stings me, you're liable."
"Moral liability?"
"Legal. I'll find a statute."
"You won't find a statute about cacti."
"I'm Harvey Specter. I'll find a statute about anything."
Mike smiled and went to get water.
A month passed. They still weren't together.
Mike still couldn't flirt around Harvey.
Harvey was still too good at it.
Donna was still crying in her office.
But the cactus sat on Harvey's desk, and every morning when he came to work, Mike checked if it had dried out.
"Did you water it?" he asked once.
"It's a cactus," Harvey said. "It doesn't need water."
"All plants need water."
"It's a cactus. It survives in the desert."
"And in an office?"
"An office even more so."
That was the end of the cactus conversation.
The next day, Harvey came to work early. With flowers. Not cacti. Real flowers. Daisies, because he remembered Mike once saying that daisies were "the most honest flowers — they don't pretend to be roses."
Mike hadn't arrived yet. Harvey put the bouquet on his desk. Sat in his own office and waited.
When Mike walked in, Harvey heard it through the wall.
First — silence. Then a cautious: "What..."
Then footsteps. And Mike appeared in the doorway, holding the bouquet, looking completely lost.
"What's this?" Mike asked.
"Flowers."
"I can see they're flowers. Why?"
"You don't like them?"
"I do. I love daisies. How did you..."
"You told me."
"When?"
"Three months ago. We were eating pizza, and you said that daisies were 'the only flowers that don't smell like a funeral.'"
Mike froze.
"And you remembered?"
"I remember everything about you."
Mike blushed. Again. Harvey started counting — this was the fourth blush that week.
"Was that flirting?" Mike asked.
"No. That was a statement of fact."
"And the daisies?"
"The daisies are a thank you for the cactus."
"The cactus was a symbol of friendship."
"And the daisies are a symbol that I want you to just admit that you like me."
Mike opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I... what?"
"You heard me."
"And if I don't admit it?"
"Then I'll give you daisies every day until you give in."
"That's blackmail."
"That's courtship."
Three years passed.
Mike still couldn't flirt around Harvey.
Harvey was still too good at it.
Donna was still crying in her office.
On Harvey's desk stood three cacti. Mike gave one each year. The first — "a symbol of friendship." The second — "because one gets lonely." The third — "so they can have their own little prickly family."
"You're turning my office into a branch of a botanical garden," Harvey said when the third cactus took its place next to his weekly to-do list.
"You could throw them out."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"Because you'd cry."
Mike shrugged and smiled. Harvey looked at the cacti.
"At least they don't wilt," he said, conciliatory.
"It's a metaphor for our relationship."
Harvey said nothing. Because yes.
The wedding was in a garden. White flowers, an arch, guests in light suits. Rachel looked like a magazine cover. Mike looked like he was being led to his execution but trying to smile.
Harvey stood by the altar. As best man. As a witness. As someone who had to give a toast and not cry.
"I've known Mike longer than I'd like to admit," he began. Mike rolled his eyes. "He's talented, smart, sometimes too smart for his own good. He remembers everything he's ever read, but forgets where he left his car keys. He can win any case, but can't tell a houseplant from a weed."
Mike snorted.
"He gave me a cactus," Harvey continued. "Said it was a symbol of our friendship. Prickly on the outside, but inside... well, inside there's water. I still don't know what that means. But the cactus is still alive."
He looked at Mike.
"I wish you and Rachel everything you deserve. Happiness, patience, good weather on moving day. And may you never forget that real love isn't about getting flowers. It's about getting a cactus. And not throwing it away. Because it reminds you of someone who was there when no one else wanted to be."
He raised his glass.
"To Mike. And to Rachel. And to cacti never wilting."
The guests drank. Mike looked at Harvey. Harvey looked at Mike.
Rachel, standing beside him, sighed and said quietly, so only Mike could hear:
"You know he loves you, right?"
"I know," Mike said.
"And you?"
"Same."
"And what are you going to do about it?"
"Nothing."
"Why?"
"Because if we did something, it would end. This way — it never ends."
She looked at Harvey, who was already pouring champagne for the guests and pretending not to look their way.
"You're both idiots," Rachel said.
Harvey still ordered Mike coffee with hazelnut syrup and an extra shot of espresso.
Mike still gave Harvey cacti on their anniversaries.
"I already have five cacti," Harvey said.
"You have space."
"I have a windowsill."
"See?"
"I don't want my office turning into a jungle."
"It's not a jungle. It's a garden."
"It's five cacti, Mike."
"Six if you count the one I'm buying next week."
"You're insufferable," Harvey said.
"I know."
"I love you."
"I know."
"And I'm not doing anything about it."
"I know."
"Then why aren't you angry?"
"Because you give me daisies."
"I give you daisies because you said they don't smell like a funeral."
"That was a compliment."
"It was a strange thing to say."
"Welcome to my life."
Harvey smirked and went to pour coffee.
Mike stayed sitting.
Maybe this was happiness — being loved, with nothing done about it, and not being angry.
"I don't cry anymore," Donna said, walking into Harvey's office without knocking. "I just watch. And drink wine. Lots of wine."
"Good morning, Donna," Harvey said.
"You're never going to be together," she said. "I've accepted it. You'll stand at other people's weddings, give each other cacti, and make compliments about the smell of documents. That's your fate."
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm stating facts."
"It's the same thing."
"No, it's called 'I've made peace with it.'"
Harvey looked at her.
"You came to tell me this?"
"I came to tell you that Louis is starting to suspect."
"Louis always suspects."
"Louis suspects that you're sleeping together."
"We're not sleeping together."
"I know. Louis doesn't. Louis thinks you're secret lovers hiding your relationship because Mike is married."
Harvey sighed.
"Tell Louis we're just friends."
"I will. He won't believe me."
"That's not my problem."
"It will be your problem when Louis starts following you and logging how much time you and Mike spend in closed offices."
Harvey froze.
"He what?"
"He's keeping a log."
"Why?"
"To prove you're lovers."
"We're not lovers."
"I know. Louis doesn't. Louis wants to know."
"Louis is crazy."
"Louis is the best accountant of romantic relationships in this firm."
Harvey covered his face with his hands.
"I'm quitting," he said.
"No, you're not."
"Why not?"
"Because then you wouldn't get to see Mike every day."
Harvey lowered his hands.
"You're cruel," he said.
"I'm a realist."
She left.
Harvey's office had eight cacti.
Mike got divorced. Rachel moved to Seattle. Mike stayed. With Harvey and the cacti.
They never talked about it.
Never.
"Are you going to comfort me?" Mike asked the first evening after the divorce.
"I don't know how to comfort people."
"You know how to order pizza."
"That I know."
"That's enough."
Harvey ordered pizza.
They sat on the floor of Harvey's living room.
"Are you okay?" Harvey asked.
"No," Mike said.
"Let's buy a cactus?"
"You already have eight."
"Nine. I bought a ninth."
"The office had eight."
"The ninth is in my bedroom, and I want to move all the others from the office here. What do you think?"
Louis walked into Harvey's office without knocking. It was a bad habit. Harvey had tolerated it for fifteen years.
"I know everything," Louis said.
Harvey looked up from his papers.
"About what?"
"About you and Mike."
"We're not..."
"Don't lie to me, Harvey. I saw the way you looked at him at the corporate event. You looked at him like he was the last first-edition copy of The Art of War in leather binding."
"That was a look."
"That was love. I know what I'm talking about."
Harvey leaned back in his chair.
"And what are you going to do about it?"
"Nothing," Louis said. "I just wanted you to know that I know. Because Donna thinks she's the only one who understands everything. And I'm not. I understand everything too."
"You understand that we're not together?"
"You are together," Louis cut him off. "You just don't want to admit it. But that's not my business. My business is knowing."
He left.
Harvey looked at the photo on his desk. It showed Mike surrounded by nine cacti.
"Louis knows," Donna said, walking into Harvey's office with a bottle of wine.
"It's not office hours," Harvey noted.
"It's time for revelations."
She sat down, put the bottle on the desk, and leaned back.
Harvey looked at the bottle.
"You brought wine to mourn the loss of your exclusivity?"
"I brought wine to celebrate that you finally admitted the obvious."
"I admitted nothing."
Harvey sighed. Donna opened the wine.
"Are you happy?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
"Then why are you asking?"
"So you'll say it out loud."
Harvey said nothing.
Donna finished her wine.
"I'm proud of you," she said. "This is the biggest progress I've seen in all the years I've known you."
She stood up.
"I'll come again tomorrow. I'll bring more wine."
"It's not office hours," Harvey reminded her.
"It's time for revelations," Donna said. "I told you."
She left.
Harvey looked at the photo. He was happy.
Mike rented an apartment two streets away from Harvey.
"To be closer to work," he explained.
"Work is in the opposite direction," Harvey noted. "You do realize this doesn't count as moving in with me?"
Harvey looked at him. Mike blushed. For the hundredth time.
"You're an idiot," Harvey said. "You moved in with me. Two streets away. That's not moving in with me."
"It's near me."
"Near me," Harvey corrected.
"It's the same thing."
Harvey wanted to argue. But he didn't.
There were twelve cacti. They started buying them together on their anniversaries.
Donna came over with wine on Fridays.
Mike and Harvey sat on the floor of the living room, watching a strange show on TV and eating pizza with stuffed crust.
"Have you ever regretted it?" Harvey asked.
"Regretted what?"
"That we never..."
"No," Mike interrupted.
Harvey looked at him.
"We live together. Donna comes over on Fridays, and we gossip like teenagers. Louis sends us joint holiday cards. The cacti don't wilt, and you still give me daisies," Mike continued. "And I love you."
"You never said you liked me," Harvey noted.
"That's the point."
Harvey bought a thirteenth cactus and called Mike over.
The ring had been purchased a month after Mike moved into the apartment two streets away. Because that was how they lived together, and you both understand what that means — it was time.
Mike walked in with a confused look, because Harvey was wearing a jacket and had a briefcase nearby. He placed a fourteenth cactus on the kitchen table.
Harvey pulled a document from his briefcase.
"What's this?" Mike asked.
"Read."
Mike read.
Clause 1. The parties agree to cohabitate on the same territory (no longer limited to two streets apart).
Mike raised an eyebrow.
Clause 2. The parties agree to purchase cacti together, but no more than one per year.
"Harvey, this is…"
"Keep reading," Harvey interrupted. His voice was steady. Too steady.
Clause 3. The parties agree to order each other coffee with hazelnut syrup and an extra shot of espresso in the mornings. Clause 4. The parties agree to eat pizza on the floor on Fridays. Clause 5. The parties agree to tolerate Donna with wine. Clause 6. The parties agree not to throw away gifted cacti. Clause 7. The parties agree to acknowledge that they've been together for a long time already.
"Is this a prenup?"
"It's a proposal," Harvey said.
"There's no clause about kissing."
"Clause 8."
Mike reread. Clause 8. Kissing — by mutual agreement, but no less than once a day.
"You wrote a marriage contract."
"I'm Harvey Specter. I write contracts for everything."
"You can't write a contract for love."
"This isn't a contract for love. This is a contract for cohabitation. The love is already there. It doesn't need to be included in clauses."
Mike looked at him.
"Where's the ring?" Mike asked.
"In my pocket."
"Show me?"
Harvey took out the ring. It was a simple white gold ring.
"I didn't know what you liked," he said. "You talked about cacti. About daisies. About the smell of documents. You never talked about rings."
Mike took the ring and turned it over in his hands.
"It's perfect," he said.
"You haven't said yes yet."
"You haven't gotten down on one knee yet."
Harvey looked at the floor.
"It's dirty," he said.
"Your personal cleaner Liz mops every two days. And yesterday, actually, I mopped the floor here because I spilled coffee."
Harvey sighed and lowered himself onto one knee.
"Mike," he said. "You're an idiot. I'm an idiot. Let's stop wasting time. Marry me. I don't know the rules, but I know that without you, my life is an office with cacti and Donna with wine. And with you — it's my bedroom with cacti and Donna with wine on Fridays at our place."
Mike smiled.
"Yes," he said.
"Yes what?"
"Yes, I'll marry you."
Harvey stood up and put the ring on Mike's finger.
"You didn't even kiss me," Mike said.
"Clause 8," Harvey replied. "Kissing — by mutual agreement."
He leaned in and kissed him.
Donna found out first. Because Donna always finds out first.
She walked into Harvey's office without knocking (a bad habit, but Harvey had made peace with it) and saw the ring on Mike's finger.
"Did you get married?" she asked.
"Engaged," Harvey corrected.
"Without me?"
"You would have been superfluous."
Donna looked at him. Then at Mike. Then at Harvey again.
"I'm crying," she said.
"I see."
"These are tears of joy."
"I know."
"I'm going to tell Louis right now."
"Don't."
"Too late," Donna said, already pulling out her phone. "Louis will be thrilled."
"Louis will be horrified," Harvey argued. "He thought we were already married and hiding it. Now he'll find out we only just got engaged. It'll break him."
"It'll make him happy," Donna said. "He'll know he was right. Partially."
She left.
Louis walked into Harvey's office without knocking. A bad habit, but Harvey had stopped hoping to eradicate it.
"Did you get engaged?" Louis asked.
"Yes," Harvey said.
"I knew it," he said.
"You didn't know anything," Harvey said.
"I knew it," Louis repeated. "You were just too busy to notice."
He turned and left.
They didn't have a wedding.
"It's unnecessary," Mike said.
"Agreed," Harvey said.
"We'll just sign the papers."
"With Donna as a witness."
"And Louis."
"Louis will cry."
"Louis always cries."
They signed the papers. Donna brought champagne. Louis brought a card with hand-drawn cacti. Crooked but cute.
"I drew them myself," Louis said.
"We can see," Harvey replied.
They drank. Donna cried. Louis cried. Mike and Harvey just sat and watched them.
"Are you happy?" Harvey asked.
"Yes," Mike said.
"Me too."
They didn't kiss. Because kissing was by mutual agreement. And neither felt like negotiating. It was fine as it was.
There were twenty cacti.
Donna came over with wine on Fridays.
Louis sometimes came with her.
They lived in one apartment. Finally.
"Are you sure?" Harvey asked, as Mike placed the nineteenth cactus on the windowsill.
"About what?"
"That we won't regret it."
"We haven't regretted anything for twenty years," Mike said. "Why start now?"
Harvey looked at him. For a long time. So long that Mike had time to think: What if he kisses me right now?
"You're right," Harvey said.
And kissed him.
Mike smiled.
And nothing changed.
Because that was happiness.
No one clarified that they had violated the one cactus per year rule.
The cacti grew for a long time and did not wilt
The end.