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They were somewhere over Pennsylvania when Mike gave in and dropped the briefs he was holding so that he could grind the heels of his hands into his eyes. It didn't help. He blinked past the spots in his eyes to look over at Harvey, who was twisted in his chair to look out the window, watching the clouds pass and (probably) plotting world domination. During take-off and for about thirty minutes after, he'd chatted at Mike almost non-stop: mocking Mike, his tie, his role on the trip, the case, his supposed privilege at getting to come--before he'd quieted. His lips were quirked into a soft smile, at ease at fifty thousand feet, and as Mike's stomach gave a lurch, he could only think about how much he hated Harvey right now.
It took Harvey about 30 seconds to figure this out.
"What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing," Mike lied. He wasn't pouting because he was a grown goddamn man flying halfway across the country in a private jet to play Robin to Harvey's corporate Batman (if multimillion dollar companies could be considered downtrodden). Besides, it wasn't pouting when someone felt this miserable.
"You look like hell. You should have stayed holed up in your hovel if you knew you were sick."
"Not sick."
"You look like you have the plague."
"I think I'm air sick."
"Air sick," Harvey deadpanned, as if it was the most improbable thing in the world, as he continued to stare at Mike.
"It happens," Mike said just as miserably as before and, okay--maybe he was pouting just a bit but it was justified. Justifiable pouting. It didn't matter how awesome the trip would be—and it had the potential to be really awesome. He knew Harvey would put him on the first plane back--commercial and probably coach--if he thought Mike couldn't handle it. "I'll be fine as soon as we land.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't know!"
"How could you not know?"
"It's the first time I've been on a plane."
"I gave you money to buy a ticket to Boston--"
"I took a train."
"Trains don't bother you."
"No."
"What about cars?"
"No! Just planes, I guess. Can we quit talking about it?"
That lasted about a minute during which Mike looked past Harvey and out the window, focusing on the horizon, or what he could see of it, and concentrated on not throwing up while Harvey stared at him. Mike could feel him staring. In fact, it was really annoying. "Stop it."
"Stop what?"
"Silently judging me."
"That's not what I'm doing."
"Silently mocking, then."
"When have I ever been silent about that?" Still, Harvey fell quiet for a few minutes and while Mike knew he was still staring, it just felt like normal staring. He thought maybe he could live with that, at least until they got to Chicago. It didn't last. "Are you going to throw up?"
"Maybe."
"No, you're not," Harvey said with more confidence than Mike felt.
"We shouldn't have had those hot dogs before we left."
"Don't blame the hot dogs."
"Don't talk about hot dogs either. Seriously, Harvey, I think I'm going to be sick."
"Not on this plane."
"No, really. I think--" Mike snapped his mouth shut and sat back in his seat again, taking in deep breathes through his nose and purposefully blowing them out through his mouth.
"How far apart are the contractions?" Harvey asked with mock concern, dipping his head down to look at Mike with wide, concerned eyes.
Mike squeezed his eyes shut and thought of vast, open spaces with the ground firmly beneath his feet. He thought of his bed. He reconstructed every inch of his cubicle. It made it easier to pretend Harvey wasn't there.
"I chartered this flight as a reward for you," Harvey said after a moment. "This whole trip is your reward for handling the Swenson case. You're not throwing up on your reward."
When Mike didn't respond because what do you say to that (besides thank you, obviously, but the recollection of the hot dogs had dug in and brought with it the twin memories of onions and salt and vinegar chips, which took Mike back to a fifth grade field trip and a dare that Trevor lost). Mike blanched and dug his fingers into the armrest of his chair, ignoring Harvey completely when he moved to sit closer.
Of course, ignoring Harvey was easier said (thought) than done. "It's not like I'm doing it on purpose."
"Give me your arm."
"What?"
"Your arm. Give me your arm. I know a trick."
Mike cradled his arm against his chest, his fingers tight around his own wrist, as he narrowed his eyes in Harvey's direction. "A trick."
"I didn't say it was a trick. I said I know a trick. Will you just trust me?"
"What are you going to do?"
"Beat you with it soundly if-- Just give me your arm, Mike."
Harvey rolled his eyes when Mike thrust his arm out rigidly, his hand clenched into a fist. The funny thing was, Mike did trust Harvey more than he trusted anyone else but with big stuff like his career, his life, his first edition copy of Palahniuk's latest. This was different. This was dubious meat products and a brain that couldn't reconcile itself to going five hundred miles per hour
"Here. Take your tie off. Loosen your collar. Better?"
"A little bit."
"Now, give me your arm. I'm not going to hurt you. I can't believe you don't trust me."
"I trust you."
Harvey just hummed, managing to make it sound condemnatory, which Mike interpreted as I won't forget this and there will be consequences later. Mike tried to relax to show that he meant what he'd said.
"Do your Lamaze breathing thing again."
"It's not—" Mike sighed heavily, grumbling a bit at the impatient tug on his arm. He shook his head, giving in after a moment, and took a quick breath in before pushing it out through his nose.
"That's it. Slower. C'mon. That's it. Better?"
"No. Yeah. I guess."
"That settles that." Harvey took Mike's arm and shook it a bit by the wrist until Mike forced himself to relax his muscles before Harvey began prying open Mike's fist finger-by-finger. "There you go. I promise this is going to work. I can't believe you don't trust me."
"Sorry boss, but there's only two men I trust. One of them's me. The other's not you."
"Fifty thousand feet and you're quoting Nick Cage at me."
"It takes my mind off wanting to vomit." Mike opened his eyes and prodded his stomach with his free hand.
"Don't do that. Just sit there quietly, not trusting me."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm doing it."
Mike watched for a few minutes as Harvey pressed his thumb firmly against the soft, pale flesh of Mike's inner arm, his other fingers curling to stroke absently at the back of Mike's hand. Harvey's skin was tanned and warm, his nails neat and trim. Mike could feel a callous on Harvey's wide, square palm, on his index finger, and he spent a moment trying to think of its cause—nothing at work. Guitar? Weights? Then he remembered a conversation from a couple of weeks ago that he wasn't meant to overhear and the callouses suddenly made sense. "I bet you carve toys for orphan children in your spare time."
"What?"
"I read a book once."
"Of course you did."
"The boy's dad was a carpenter. He had—Never mind. You didn't tell me what you were doing."
"Is it helping?"
Mike closed his eyes and concentrated for a moment, cataloguing his body's reaction: his head hurt less, his stomach felt settled. He dropped his shoulders, let his own long fingers curl back over Harvey's hand. He smiled as he opened his eyes again. "I bet you really do things like that."
"I don't like orphans."
Mike knew Harvey was going for gruff but the gentleness of his hands belied the tone of his voice. It made Mike feel warm all over and he smiled wider. "Or puppies."
"Them either. Just relax, okay."
They were silent, nothing but the hum of the engine and Mike wondered vaguely where they were. He hoped they had time yet. Mike eased back into his seat, slumping a bit as he watched Harvey with heavy eyes. He was still unwrinkled and buttoned up, his hair sleek and not even a hint of stubble. He looked exactly like the kind of guy who would fly across country in a Lear Jet in order to have dinner with a client, and not someone who would spend any of that time curing his associate of motion sickness with some sort of acupressure.
"I bet on Saturday mornings you coach a Little League team in Harlem," Mike whispered, like it was a secret though there was no one else there. Mike suppose it was true enough. It's not like Harvey had ever told him about it.
Harvey tightened his grip for a moment, creating a half moon in Mike's skin before he soothed it over. "Donna told you."
"You're a peach of a guy, Harvey."
"Shut up."
"You're a king among men."
"I won't argue with that."
"You like orphans, too."
"I like one orphan."
"You just admitted you like me."
"Are you still going to throw up?"
"No."
"Then I like you," Harvey said, like it cost him something he valued deeply, and Mike supposed it did.
Mike figured it deserved a confession of his own. "You're my best friend."
"Let's not get carried away."
"You are. You're like a superhero, too. Harvey Specter, asshole by day, all around nice guy when trouble arises."
"I'll kick your ass if you say that out loud again."
"It's true, every word of it."
"So, you're feeling better?"
"Yeah, but don't stop doing that."
"I'm not holding your hand all the way to Chicago."
"I think you will, actually. You haven't let go yet."
"These are my favorite pair of Stefano Bemer's, and I don't want to take a chance of you ruining them."
"I don't even know what that means."
Harvey rolled his eyes but didn't let go of Mike's arm, and Mike beamed at him.
"You're the other guy," Mike said after they'd sat for a while in silence, Harvey mostly swiping his thumb over Mike's pulse point in what Mike would call a caress if he didn't think he'd get decked for it.
"What?"
"The other guy. The one I trust. You're him."
"I was teasing you, Mike."
"I know, but this world," Mike said as he gestured around the plane, "that I don't even begin to fit into."
"You'll get there."
"It's more than that. It's what we do. Your stupid Stefano Bemer's--I know they're incredibly overpriced shoes by the way--"
"Hand stitched out of Italian leather to fit my foot perfectly by a cobbler who learned the craft from his father and his father's father. It's takes three months for each pair--"
"See, that right there is what's wrong with you."
"Nothing's wrong with me."
"Yeah, I know."
"Yeah?"
Mike twisted his hand around so that their fingers lined up, feeling those calluses again, before he slotted their fingers together. They fit perfectly, and Mike wasn't surprised. It felt right in a way nothing else had. "You're the guy, Harvey," he whispered--another secret to keep between the two of them, and Harvey nodded, smiled blindingly brilliant for a moment before he tucked it away behind a smirk.
"I could have told you that."
"It would have counted as being nice."
"Which is precisely why I didn't do it." Harvey curled his hand over Mike's jaw, brushed the pad of his thumb over Mike's lips, and Mike went breathless for a moment until Harvey dropped his hand back onto his armrest.
"You're such an asshole."
Harvey hummed again, but this time Mike thought it meant but that's why you love me, and Mike knew he was right.
"Are you positive you're not going to throw up?"
"I really do feel better."
"So the thought of relish and mustard and ketchup—"
"Harvey—"
"I'm pretty hungry. I bet we could find a can of olives or something. It's a classy outfit. They probably have the pickled intestines of--"
"The rumors are true: you're a complete jerk, and no one will hear anything different from me."
"Tonight, on the way home, we'll talk about it."
"About how with a little effort you could become a real human boy with consideration for others?"
"Something like that."
"About this?" Mike squeezed Harvey's hand.
"Yeah, we'll talk about how you've become a permanent thorn in my side."
"Is this your pillow talk, by the way? Because I'm thinking it needs some work."
"Shut up, Mike."
Mike smiled but didn't say another word. Next to him, he knew that Harvey was quietly having a nervous breakdown over the ramifications of his confession and plotting how a relationship between them was going to work. He didn't doubt Harvey would have a plan by the time they reboarded the flight back to New York. It only took Mike roughly calculating wind speed and his bizarre knowledge of geography to know that somewhere over Akron, Ohio, he had a plan of his own: he would put his faith in Harvey.
"I really do trust you," he whispered, and was answered only by the tender touch of Harvey's fingers playing along his forearm and wrist.