Chapter Text
Dear Mike,
Huh. Well, that wasn’t supposed to happen. I made a mistake (yeah, yeah, it happens, smartass). This letter wasn’t supposed to be addressed to you. At least, I don’t think it was. My shrink would probably say there are no mistakes. That subconsciously I have things I want to say to you and that’s why your name is at the top of this letter. Maybe she’d be right (and somewhere in the afterlife Freud just punched the air and yelled, “Ja!”). Christ, did I just admit there might be something to all this therapy crap?
Why am I even still writing this?! Why am I writing you a letter I have no intention of ever letting you read? Why didn’t I just score your name out and start again? Or screw this piece of paper up and throw it in the trash? (A shot even you could make from here, by the way, rookie, because LeBron, you ain’t.)
It was supposed to be addressed to my mother but never actually sent, an exercise designed by Dr. Agard to get me to work on some of my mommy issues, in case you were wondering. Which, of course, you weren’t, because you’re never going to read this. But I felt I should clear that up anyway, seeing as how either my hand or this pen seems to have taken on a life of its own and won’t let me stop writing this pointless crap. So I guess I should start at the beginning and give you all the facts. And, yes, the pen is the one you gave me, and seriously, why am I using a goddamn ‘Wayne Enterprises’ novelty pen when I have a Montblanc sitting right here on my desk?? First rule of lawyering, don’t ask questions you don’t know the answer to. Second rule of lawyering, don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to. Well, I know the answer, rookie. I’ve known for a long time now. Jesus, if that asshole Stemple had asked for this pen instead of the painting I think I would have went all John Cusack in ‘Grosse Pointe Blank’ and stabbed him with it rather than give it up. But you don’t know anything about that because I was supposed to start from the start.
Aw, hell, what am I babbling on about?? I’m worse than Louis that time he was hopped up on so much coffee his back teeth were practically floating in it and all because he was crushing on the barista in that little coffee shop you like. (See? I do listen. I can name everything you like, Mike. All your favourite foods, colours, designers, sports teams, movies, albums, restaurants, people, places, everything. Well, almost everything. What I don’t know is how you like to be kissed. Do you like it slow, deep, gentle and thorough? Or do you prefer it fast, dirty, heated and rough? I like both. I bet you do too, don’t you, Mike? Fuck, now I’m just turning this into an exercise in masochism. Torturing myself with questions I’m never going to know the answer to.)
Right, Jesus, enough of the pity party. From the top then.
Dr. Agard finally got the story about what happened to the duck painting out of me in therapy yesterday. Which is more than you have. I’ll never tell you, if I can help it. Telling you about it would be like me personally booking you a one way ticket for the first class guilt trip I know you’d take over it and I don’t want to do that, Mike. But Agard, she knew something was eating at me. Rather than tell her it was worrying over how soon my best friend was going to reschedule his wedding (because wouldn’t that just open up a can of worms I’m not interested in getting into with a stranger I pay to listen to me whine), I threw her the ‘my college nemesis, or at least the one I wasn’t sleeping with, made me give him the one good memory I had left of my mother’ story as a distraction. It worked. They say all the best lies have a kernel of truth in them. Because, yeah, losing that painting stung, kid, I’m not going to lie.
But the truth is that was like a paper cut compared to the amputation of losing you. Compared to the massive, gaping wound of having to watch you fight for the life you were always meant to have and then seeing you give up that fight, that life, to protect me. Of witnessing you almost marry someone else, someone who isn’t me, then standing helplessly by as you walked away from me and into prison, your assurance that you’d do it all again still ringing in my ears. I wonder would you have still said that after your first few days in there. After you experienced the reality of incarceration and the injustice of running into my past. (Of course, that’s just how your shitty luck goes, isn’t it, rookie? You walk into prison to protect me and straight into someone who’d happily kill me and everyone I love. You never catch a break, do you? Were you Genghis Khan in a previous life or something?! Because I don’t know how else to explain a bleeding heart do-gooder like you having such bad karma otherwise.) It would be unfair of me to ask you if you’d still say you’d do it all over again, though. I know that, Mike. Trust me, I do know that. So I’m not going to. Or maybe I just don’t want to hear the answer.
You know what my problem is? I ask too much of people, expect them to live up to some impossible standard. That’s what my mother said anyway, when I found out she was cheating on my dad. Like expecting her to be faithful to the man she’d vowed to love, honor and cherish was asking too much! Yeah, not real good at the whole ‘forsaking all others’ part, my mom. But maybe she had a point about me. Maybe I do ask too much from others, expecting them to live up to some arbitrary standard of loyalty and honesty and decency I’ve set for them. But here’s the thing, Mike. You haven’t just met every standard I’ve ever set; you’ve surpassed them. In ways I never thought possible.
I never figured on you, Mike. I never factored in the possibility that I, Harvey Specter, arrogant, uncaring asshole might actually fall in love. And with a man ten years my junior, to boot. But fall I did. I’m still falling. Every day, deeper and deeper in love with you.
I tried not to. I tried to drown it in scotch or bury it in the skin of some cocktail waitress or Louis’ sister or whoever, but none of it worked. Now I just stick to the scotch. The thought of touching someone else in that way, someone who isn’t you, turns my stomach. Do you see what you’ve done to me?? This is why I fought against emotions for so long. They leave you a gibbering wreck, spewing sentimental, sophomoric bullshit about eternal love and forever and soulmates and other halves of ourselves. Hearts and flowers and souls connecting. And fate.
I keep rewinding to the day we met. Do you ever think about that day? That’s a stupid question. Of course you do. You must. You must wonder what path your life would have taken if that day had went differently. I keep thinking what my life would be like if you’d never walked through that door, if I’d never caught a glimpse of you. But you did walk through it, Mike, and I caught more than a glimpse. I saw all of you, Mike. Really saw.
Do you think that was fate? You stumbling into my interviews and into my life? Jesus, listen to me. Fate. Like there’s some unseen, unknown force out there that actually gives a rat’s ass about you and me being in the right place at the right time and with the right person. Yeah, right.
But, I mean … have you ever just stopped, and looked around you, and wondered, how did this become my life? I bet you have. Of course you have. When your parents died (they’d be so proud of you, you know that, right?), when you got kicked out of college, when I hired you, when you got arrested, when you went to Danbury. God knows how many other times. I’ve been doing that a lot recently. Hell, I’ve been doing it for the past six years. Looking around and wondering just what the fuck happened. (You. You happened.)
I used to think I was three steps ahead of everyone, ahead of life, but no one’s ahead of life, Mike. I guess you learned that the hard way, at an early age, then had it beat into you over and over again. I was arrogant, cocky, so sure of myself and full of misplaced pride at how certain I was nothing or no one could ever touch me. I was going through life with blinders on to what was really important - and I never saw you coming. Would I have got out of your way if I had? Would I have sent you on your way that day in the Chilton Hotel instead of hiring you? No, because the truth is I was yours from the moment that weed spilled across the floor and you tried to think of some ridiculous lie to tell me but then just gave it up as a lost cause and told me the truth. Because that’s who you are, Mike, at your core - an honest man. You’re not a liar (okay, an argument could be made that’s not strictly true, I suppose, but in every way that counts you’re all about the truth, kid). You’re not a fraud. No matter what the Great State of New York or anyone else says. You’re the most real person I’ve ever met.
And I let you down; failed you in so many ways, over and over again. You have no idea how that haunts me. No idea what it was like. Me, out here, free, while you were trapped in there, paying for not just my sins, but for some of the good I’ve done too. Because getting Gallo locked up was a good thing. Well, right up until you walked into the same prison as him. I’m not trying to make out it was a ball for you. I’m not trying to turn this into a ‘who suffered the most?’ competition. I guess I just need you to know that I did suffer, Mike. Even if it’s only by writing it here, in this letter that you’re never going to read. Which makes about as much sense as Louis on any given day, but I suppose Dr. Agard would say just getting it all out is the point. So here goes.
Do you know how fucking jealous I was when you texted Rachel that first night and not me? I know, crazy, right? What goddamn right do I have to be jealous about anything you do? But I was. I still am. I don’t want to be angry at her (or you) for her being the first person you reached out to. I don’t want to be jealous of her. But I am. I have been from the moment I realised you had feelings for her. Real feelings, not some stupid little crush or just wanting to bang her brains out. Not going to lie, that was real fucking hard to accept, Mike. I’m not sure I even have accepted it yet.
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to turn this into a hate on Rachel thing. But I’ve got to ask - does she get you, Mike? I mean, really get you. The way I do? Does she make you laugh like I can? Does she get your references? Does she challenge you, make you think? Does she push you to be all I know you can be, all I know you are? Does she understand what drives you, what makes you tick? Does she see you for who you really are, the way I see you? The way I know you. See, I don’t think she does. And that hurts. Knowing she’ll never be as good for you as I could. That’s not arrogance or bragging, it’s just a fact, Mike. No one’s ever going to love you as well as I could, the way I could, the way I do. And, like I said, that hurts. But no matter how much it hurts, I still don’t regret you. I’ll never regret you.
Every day you were in that place I asked myself, “Is today the day I lose him?”. No, scratch that, I’ve been asking myself that question every day for years now. It just took on a whole new frightening dimension when you got locked up, especially once I found out you were in there with Gallo. He’s a stone cold killer, Mike, and I was terrified for you. Well, you’ve met him, you don’t need me to tell you I had good reason to be scared.
But that’s over now. You’re out of there and you’re safe and now I just have to be thankful for that. Have to be thankful I’m going to lose you to marriage and not death. Although I’ve often viewed them as much the same thing in the past. Of course, that’s all different now too. I’d stand up with you tomorrow and promise to love, honor and cherish you, forsaking all others, for the rest of my days, if you’d have me. Yeah, that’s right, I’d marry you tomorrow if I could. Hell, I’d marry you this minute if you asked. That’s all you’d have to do, Mike, just ask.
God, listen to me, I’m embarrassing myself here. I might as well just buy a cat and set up a weekly mudding appointment with Louis right now. Jesus, I shouldn’t even be dumping on him anymore. Three weeks and he’s engaged! He manned up and went out and got everything he wanted. In three weeks! I’ve had six years to get my act together and Louis is showing me how it should be done?! I’m pathetic.
You want to know just how pathetic? I actually stood outside your office one day, for what felt like hours, just staring through the glass at your desk, at your empty chair, at the place you should have been. I stared at your name on the door (did you know your name is my favourite thing in the world to say, to write, my favourite thing to have in my mouth, on my tongue, at the end of my fingertips? Mike, Mike, Mike.) and wondered how eight little letters could spell my world entire. I wanted to reach out and run my fingers over it, over every blessed letter that makes up your name. I wanted to kiss it (I want to kiss you) and was probably about eight seconds away from doing just that if Donna hadn’t turned up.
So I just stared at your name on the door like a name on a headstone. I was like one of those sad little dogs that sit by their dead owner’s grave, pining away, hoping they’ll come back. I felt like you died. No, that’s not right. I felt like I’d died. And I’d dragged you down to Hell with me. I felt so empty, like part of me was missing. You, you were the part of me that was missing. And yet you were always with me. Always. Explain that to me if you can, with that great big beautiful brain of yours.
It was like I was empty, but carrying around this enormous weight at the same time. Hollow inside, but with the weight of the world on my shoulders. You probably think I’m an Ayn Rand type of guy, but trust me, this Atlas wouldn’t have shrugged. I wouldn’t have shirked, I wouldn’t have set that weight aside for anything, Mike. Because it was you. You’re my world. You have been for such a long time now and I could never set you aside, even if I wanted to. I wouldn’t know how to. You’re part of me, Mike, the best part, and I’d carry you anywhere. I’ll carry you with me always, for the rest of my life. That’s just something I know. Don’t ask me how, I just do. As sure as I know my name is Harvey Specter, the sky is blue (like your goddamn glorious eyes) and Travis Tanner is a douchebag. And still I’ll never regret you.
My dad once told me that to regret loving is to regret living. We were talking about my mom at the time. I’d asked him why, Marcus and me aside, he didn’t seem to regret ever having met her and that was his reply. I didn’t get it at the time and I told him as much. He just grinned and said, “You will one day, son, you will one day.” Well, I guess one day finally came.
He predicted all this, you know, the same night he told me I’d some day understand what he meant about regret and love. He said one day someone would come into my life and tip it upside down, but it would feel like I was finally standing on my feet for the first time in my life. And no matter what happened after that, I’d never regret meeting that person, regret loving them, this someone who had set me right way up. You’re that someone, Mike. You’re that person. And, yeah, he said ‘someone’ and ‘person’, not ‘she’, ‘her’ or ‘woman’. I didn’t pay it much heed at the time, but looking back now it’s almost as if he knew.
Or maybe he just knew a little something about me I tried to bury, deep down inside, in the darkest corners of myself, where it would never see the light of day, only letting it out at night in anonymous bars with anonymous strangers. Until I met you. Until you walked in and shone your light into the blackest recesses of my soul and I couldn’t deny this part of me anymore. Until I started waking up in the middle of the night with damp sheets twisted around me and your name on my lips. The false memory of your skin under my hands, your body under mine, on top of mine, pressed up against mine, running through my head. The scent of your hair almost tangible in the air. Your face in my mind’s eye. Your eyes, your lips, your goddamn nose, seared in my brain, as I imagined kissing all of them. Imagined kissing all of you. Every. Single. Inch. And I’m stopping with that line of thought before I need a cold shower.
I wish you could have met him, my dad. You’d have liked him, I know you would. And he’d have loved you. But then, it’s in the Specter genes, I suspect. We’re hardwired to love you. Or at least I am. But I guess the question is, could you ever love me back? Not just as a friend, but as everything two people could possibly be to each other.
I wonder how you would feel, what you would say, if I had the guts to take off the mask of friendship I’ve been wearing for so long. If I had the balls to slip this letter into the same envelope as the offer letter I have sitting here on my desk, waiting for me to give it to you tonight at the bar. This is the offer letter I really wanted to write, not the one Jessica and Louis signed off on as well, but this one. The one where I offer you all of me, everything I am or ever will be, everything I have, such as it is. Would that be something you’d be interested in, Mike? Would it be an offer you couldn’t refuse? Would your whole goddamn beautiful face light up, those eyes radiating happiness, that smile beaming and making my stomach do backflips?
Or would you be embarrassed, uncomfortable, blushing, squirming in your seat, unable to look me in the eye. And when you finally did would all I’d see in your eyes be pity? We’d both be stranded in that little corner of Purgatory known as ‘awkward’ then, wouldn’t we? I’d really lose you then. Oh, you’d be sweet about it, let me down gently, I’ve no doubt about that. But the damage would have been done, the rot would have set in, and slowly our friendship, the only thing I have left to cling to, would be eroded and little by little you would pull away from me. And I couldn’t stand that, Mike. I can’t let you go, not completely. And so here I am. Stuck in limbo, wondering what could be, but too chickenshit to take the plunge and find out. But, what if…
What if you actually felt the same way about me? Am I kidding myself? Making myself see things that aren’t really there? Sometimes I feel like we have these little moments where all I would have to do would be reach out and take you in my arms and you’d go willingly and we’d never look back. Would you, Mike? Would you wrap your arms around me, let me do the same to you? Let me hold you, feel you, breathe you in, kiss you, taste you? Wouldn’t even the possibility you might want all those things too be worth the risk of me asking? God help me, I want to believe, I do. But I’m not sure I can.
I wish my dad was still around. I would tell him all about you, ask him what he thought I should do. But I can’t do jackshit with ‘I wish’. I’m on my own with this one. Marcus would try to understand, but he’d never really get it. I can’t talk to Donna about it, not after she told me she loved me. It would be rubbing salt in the wound. Jessica would just tell me to grow a pair. Louis? Yeah, no, that’s never happening. And that just leaves you. It always comes down to you in the end, Mike.
I know what you’d tell me to do if I went to you with a hypothetical, if I didn’t mention you were the hypothetical. You’d tell me to take the leap. That knowing for certain, one way or the other, is the only way I’ll ever really be happy. If my hypothetical says yes, then great, we can double date with you and Rachel. And if they say no, at least I’ll know and can start to accept I have to move on. Then you’d probably shoot me that grin of yours, wouldn’t you? The one I can never resist grinning back at like a loon. You’d grin and tell me not to worry, that there’s no one out there Harvey Specter can’t close. And I’d want to believe you, I’d want to believe you so badly. So badly that I almost would, I’d almost do it, almost tell you. But then I’d remember Rachel and the mask would slip back into place again and I’d bottle it all up inside me.
There’s my answer, I suppose. I can’t lose you, Mike. It would kill me, not having you in my life. So I guess I’m just going to go to that bar tonight and hand you the official offer letter, the one that would bring you back here to the firm, back where you belong. And I’m going to smile and joke and pretend my heart isn’t breaking all the while, then go home alone and drown myself in scotch and dreams of you.
That’s it then, isn’t it? Dr. Agard would be proud of me. I’ve said all I needed to say. Except one thing. A smart kid like you can probably figure out what that is. I didn’t exactly make it hard to read between the lines.
I love you, Mike.
There it is. Plain and simple and in black and white. And it’s written all over my face if only you could see beneath this mask I wear.
I love you.
Yours, now and always,
Harvey