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Harvey doesn't make it a habit to go to Brooklyn.
He's heard it all. Every argument waxed in poetry about how it may as well be the de facto capital of New York, how it's the melting pot of civilization, how you can be locked within the confines of the borough from birth to death and find yourself still living a completely satisfied life. But he's a Manhattanite, proud of it, and no amount of badgering from anybody can drag him across the East River from his lush skyscrapers and dozen taxis every half block in each direction.
Unless, of course.
Harvey walks up to the old rundown apartment, somehow both ground level and basement simultaneously. Despite being here only once before, the scene of it all is burned into his brain. The alley leading up to the front door, dark and claustrophobic. There's squeaks and groans from the awning above him, a premonition and an invitation all at once. There's a wash of posters across the bricked walls, old and fading, new and vibrant, promoting various events that are so hipster-esque it justifies all of the stereotypes directed to this borough.
The beginnings of summer is coating New York in a temperature that's pleasant for now but won't remain so in the next few weeks, the inevitability of humidity threatening to coat them. Daylight burns behind him as Harvey goes down a few steps, still in his three-piece suit from coming here straight from the office.
He lets his eyes slip closed, allows himself one, long moment, before opening them and raising a fist to knock.
There's shuffling behind the door, wood so thin Harvey can imagine every action. A muffled thought, a groan, a few staggered steps, and finally, the doorknob twisting.
It's an overwhelming relief to see Mike's eyes after a month. Less so when Mike tries slamming the door on his face.
Harvey sees it coming. Hand shooting out, fingers catching the edge with a sharp sting and a loud smack, he pushes hard and fast to catch Mike off-guard. It turns into a battle of wills, and with one more solid shove, Harvey slips in.
Immediately, he grimaces. The whole apartment is hotboxed, the smell of pot and secondhand smoke so potent that it irritates his eyes. It's clear that a window hasn't been opened in at least a few days; in fact, the blinds are pulled closed and several shirts are shoved between the cracks of the window, presumably to keep the light out or the smoke in. Takeout boxes are strewn all over the place, sink piled high, garbage overflowing. The coffee table is covered in ash, with the actual ash tray looking fairly empty like someone couldn’t be bothered.
And right in the middle of it all, in the eye of the hurricane and the expression of a white-walled fence, is Mike. Stubble coming in, eyes bloodshot and a little gob smacked, he looks like he's stumbling back from a coma. His skin is pale, his cheekbones jutting out slightly from weight loss. Mike is clearly high out of his mind and is fully aware that there's no amount of bullshitting can get him out of it. So he says nothing.
Not much can shake Harvey Specter, but silence from Mike Ross makes the hair on his nape rise.
Harvey watches Mike like he watched him a month ago, after Harvey gets a phone call from the nursing home telling him that, as Mike's emergency contact, they couldn't get ahold of him and that Vivian Ross had passed away in her sleep.
It's a strange thing, looking at Mike's face and be vaguely unnerved. This is not someone that Harvey is familiar with.
Joint lit between his fingertips, Mike shakes his head as he lifts it to his lips, inhaling deep, before breathing out, smoke angled in the opposite direction. Polite even now. A minutiae of an action that shows Harvey that there's a trace of him still in there. "If I can be perfectly candid for a second," Mike finally says, a bit sardonic. His voice is rough with disuse. "I would actually prefer if you didn't see me like this."
It's easy to pick out, especially for him, who's observed Mike toying with even the most pedantic of contracts. Mike doesn't want Harvey to leave.
That settles it.
Pulling out his phone from inside his coat, Harvey pulls up a timer. "Twelve hours," he tells him, hitting start and placing it carefully on the last empty spot on the coffee table that isn't covered in ash or flecks of pot: 00:00:35. They watch the seconds tick by: 00:00:38. 00:00:39. "You and I have twelve hours to do anything and everything. Nothing leaves this room, nothing here counts, and nothing will ever be brought up again. But when this thing hits twelve? You come back to work."
Mike raises an eyebrow, vaguely intrigued. "Anything and everything? I thought the law was a specific endeavor, Mr. Specter."
He takes a few steps towards Mike, relishing being in his vicinity again. Being separated has done neither of them any good, it seems. "Anything that brings catharsis."
It's what they all chase. Harvey can see it in Mike's face, in the lines of his shoulders and the lifelessness in his eyes; there is no release there, just tension. An endless headache, right at your templates. The coil in the bottom of your stomach, slowly building, demanding and growing exponentially over time until it becomes unbearable. Frogs in boiling water. They all have their release, different vices. Mike has been brute forcing it by holing up here. It's time for a new approach.
That answer seems to amuse Mike. "Catharsis, sure." Mike leans back, balanced on the windowsill. "And, what, anything goes? What happens in my shitty apartment, stays in my shitty apartment? And then, Houdini—“ he twirls a finger around. “Poof, all back to normal?”
There's a challenge there, in Mike's grief-racked frame. He's being snarky, mocking on purpose, but there's an underlying desperation in the way he throws down the gauntlet. He wants so badly for Harvey to pick it up, for the tides to force him in a new direction. Mike wants him to be right.
Harvey plucks the blunt out from between Mike's fingertips and raises it to his own lips, filter slightly damp. Harvey groans as he breathes in deep, the burn of it pleasant in his chest. In a decidedly mean move, he blows the smoke into Mike's face, who doesn't even flinch. If anything, his frame goes stock still.
"Brooklyn's very own sin city."
00:15:12.
"How long?"
Harvey is laid out across the couch, shoes kicked off and tie somewhere on Mike's floor. He's humming a little, enjoying the tingle across his skin like little lightning bolts. This feels good, buoyant. It's the kind of lightness that makes him realize how heavy all of this is in brutal contrast; Atlas having the weight of the world off his shoulders.
In the two hours since they started, Mike has been cautiously sitting on the dining table, away from him, as if Harvey will make a 180 and bitch him out for getting high. That's fine for now. Leaves Harvey with more than enough to catch up.
"How long what?"
"How long have you been getting high without me knowing?"
A scoff gets pulled out of him. "Mike," he says. "Do you think I keep secrets from you?"
"Yes."
"Good instincts. Now let me ask you another question." Harvey tilts his head back against the armrest, seeing an upside Mike sporting a mildly cautious expression. "Am I a hypocrite?"
He appreciates that this answer comes just as quick. "No."
"And law of parsimony concludes—"
"You don't get high and you're just making an exception," Mike finishes, detached. Even with Mike forlorn and unyielding, he can't help but follow Harvey's line of thought.
"Nail on the head, boy wonder." Harvey stretches, enjoying the feel of his joints locking into place. Even at this angle and getting pretty close to genuinely stoned, Harvey can see the thick brick wall of reluctance around Mike. He can't blame him. Harvey has him trained to blanch at even the whiff of THC. He'll just have to bust out the sledgehammer then. "Not my vice, typically."
"Then what is? Your vinyls? Expensive scotch?"
He closes his eyes, the pleasant swirls behind his eyelids making him dizzy. "Sex." There's an aggressive cough, then throat clearing, and Harvey snorts. "Okay, virgin."
"Hey, you absolutely can't blame me, you dick," Mike protests, and Harvey holds back from looking at his expression. "You never talked about that kind of shit with me, obviously it threw me off."
"Never?" Harvey asks, guileless.
"You want a citation?" Mike snips. The humour there is sharper than Harvey's used to, more bite than it's ever had. He counts it as a small victory. There’s a peculiar kind of teasing tilt to his mouth, conceited and a bit patronizing. Harvey’s never seen it before, and in under different circumstances, he’d like it. "No, you never have. The most I know about was Scottie, and that's mostly Donna."
The smartest, most considerate woman and his best friend, but jesus christ— "She just absolutely can't keep her mouth shut, can she?"
"But evidently, you can." Harvey opens his eyes, then, at the change of tone. "You've never once told me about your sex life. No matter how much we joked about it. Or bugged you about it. Because you always told me it has nothing to do with work." It's faint, but Harvey catches it. The sting of Mike being kept out of the loop. The bait worked beautifully.
"Right. And like I mentioned—" Harvey takes one more drag, the burn of it sliding down his chest deliciously. "What happens in Brooklyn."
The reluctance in Mike's eyes blinks away. Getting up, he flops down on the sofa, causing Harvey's knees to twist uncomfortably to make room. Mike steals the joint and takes a drag, watches his lips wrap around where Harvey's was just moments before. The sight is breathtakingly intimate.
"Here's to catharsis, then."
02:11:07.
Mike is nursing his grief the way a dragon would his treasure; Teeth-bared. Instinctive.
Harvey tries not to stare, now that Mike is unraveling more and more of who he's become since—well, since. Before this, Harvey believed that he knew Mike. Had seen him pushed to the extremes that only corporate law can do to someone. Cruel, pissed, infuriated. It comes in waves of clarity now that it's merely the thin edge of a wedge of who Mike Ross is.
He's lost weight, which is worrying since Mike's never been much of a heavyweight to begin with. There's a light shade of purple underneath his eyes. Fatigue; perpetual, by the looks of it. There's a shakiness to his frame, one that Harvey can't quite chalk up to restlessness, nerves, or general heightened sensitivity. His hair is flat, none of the silk and fluffy mess that Harvey's grown accustomed to.
That's the easy part. Harvey may have been the one who instilled the rules, but Mike is really the one playing the game.
Their position has shifted a bit. Mike slumps against Harvey, leg thrown over his and Harvey is warm. The combination of smoking with their close proximity has heat building up behind his dress shirt like a pressure cooker. When Harvey tries to shift, Mike only tamps down his leg more, refusing him this respite.
"Wow," Mike chuckles, shoulders shaking. The laugh isn't particularly kind. "You really don't get high much, huh, rookie?"
Harvey can push him off. But he won't. And Mike knows this.
Harvey should have expected this. Even in their day-to-day work, Harvey has taught him to toe the line, to edge the rules until you get what you want. A gun to your head and you reveal the bomb under your shirt. It took a minute for Harvey to reorient himself, at first. The kind-faced, soft spoken boy genius isn't here. In his place, relishes in the way he throws words down like knives, weaponizing himself and enjoying throwing Harvey off.
But even in this state, Mike knows it would take more than that to throw him off. No, it's not the sudden arrogance and mockery that's getting to Harvey.
He snakes an arm around Harvey's waist, movement more coordinated than someone this high should be. It makes sense how Mike got by doing the exam-gig as long as he had. Harvey can feel Mike's hot hand against his already overheating back until it's uncomfortable and pervasive. "You smell good," Mike tells him, with a smile that's sweet enough to melt on tongues.
"Thank you," Harvey says, quiet.
"You're very welcome." Then he pulls away, as if nothing happened, as if that wasn't the closest they've ever been. "Down for a movie? I think there's only about eight hours left, we can probably marathon something."
It's the flirting.
Mike's eyes slide towards his, and the grin looks sharp enough to cut. "You know what I fucking hate?" he asks, movie suggestion seemingly forgotten already, as if bored by himself. "I hate whenever you suddenly make go talk to clients when you know that they'd rather talk to you. I hate that."
It’s coming to the point where Harvey looks forward to the anger. He’d rather chew on knives than on nothing at all. "Oh?"
"Imagine that you're waiting for Harvey Specter, the best in New York, because you're being sued for shit amount of dollars." His intonation is perfect. No cotton mouth, perfectly eloquent. "And who shows up? Some child in a suit that looks like he’s playing dress up.”
This surprises him a little. The whole time he’s employed Mike, he’s never once voiced that he's out of his depth in this sense. Many moments of immaturity, yes. Dumb mistakes, too many to count. But Mike Ross eats everyone at his level for breakfast. Harvey knows this. He thought Mike knew this too.
“It must be exhausting being in that head of yours.” Picking up the remote, he flickers through the channels idly. “Do you want me to stop sending you to them?”
When Harvey glances over, he sees Mike’s eyes, hard and unreadable. Betrayed. “What do you think?”
Nothing good is on. The good stuff stops playing a little past midnight. He settles on the weather network.
07:38:01.
Being this level of high does interesting things to Harvey—looser, mellowed, somehow more alert—but more intriguingly, it does absolutely nothing to Mike.
It’s the small hours of the night, late enough that even the streets outside the paper thin walls fall silent. They’re both used to all nighters, it’s demanded of them. There used to be a point where Harvey would need to down several mugs of coffee to stay up this late, but it’s programmed into him now. But Mike looks like he hasn’t slept since Harvey last saw him and he’s showing no signs of slowing down. If anything, he’s ramping up.
"What do you think about Rachel?"
Harvey shrugs, the motion sloppy, sitting in one of Mike's rickety dining chairs. He can tell even without looking that one of the screws is loose, the way it squeaks ever so slightly when he puts all of his weight on the left side. "Fine."
And that's really the entirety of his answer. She's good, the way every employee of Pearson Hardman is good. Her quality of work is excellent, she has tact—no doubt from her father's rigorous upbringing—and someday she'd likely be a decent lawyer. She's fine and Harvey has no real reason to think about Rachel Zane.
"I was thinking about hooking up with her."
Mike tosses it out there, casual and apathetic, eyes on Harvey. He’s in a second-hand Harvard shirt they got from a thrift shop, because the two of them are nothing but thorough. It’s stained but he wears it well, fraudulent it may be.
Harvey doesn’t blink. “Okay.”
“I’ve been into her for a while now,” he continues. “She’s really pretty. She’s nice but she was so mean to me when I met her. That’s part of it, though. And not to—” Mike takes on a cocky and it makes Harvey wrinkle his nose slightly. “But I know she’s into me, too.”
“Okay,” he repeats. Harvey rolls up his sleeves. Sweeps off the grime from the dining table. “Then do it. Hook up with her.”
“Oh yeah?” Mike tilts his head. “You’re cool with that?”
His mouth is dry. Chooses to focus on that. “I would argue that it’s none of my business.”
Mike coos, mocking. “So official, it’s like you’re in court. Of course that’s the perspective you’re coming from. Somehow always judge and jury and on the stand. Impressive as always.” He gets on his feet, energized, and walks towards Harvey. “You mean it? You wouldn’t get in my way if you see me talking her up?”
Now it’s Harvey’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “As if you don’t do that now.” As if Harvey doesn’t see how often Mike goes to Rachel, for advice, for company, for comfort. Doesn’t keep count. “I’m your boss, not your warden.”
“Is there a difference?” Mike grins, enjoying himself, sees right through Harvey but keeps digging. “If you’re just my boss, then you wouldn’t mind if I took her out,” he takes a step towards Harvey, little by little. “Take her back here, slip her dress off, sit her where you are now and—”
“Enough.”
Harvey’s on his feet before he realizes it, only a few inches taller than Mike but he towers over him now. He doesn’t know what his expression looks like but he hears himself, the rigour that slipped out, the ire that showed itself before he can do anything about it.
Mike’s pupils are blown wide, a grin slowly spreading across his face. He looks pleased and a little out of it. “Just practicing what you taught me.”
Press until it hurts. “Why?”
Without any humour, Mike laughs. “Do you feel it? Do you feel it right—” he places a hand on Harvey’s chest, right over his heart. The touch is warm, certain. “Here? The burn of it that makes you want to die? Like you hate me, but you hate her more?” Harvey doesn’t respond, too fascinated with the way Mike looks half-insane right now. How his eyes shine breathtakingly. Crazed. “I want you to feel what I felt about Scottie. That’s it.”
Padding his way to the kitchen, Harvey hears some cluttering, the tap turning on, before Mike hands him a glass of water. Harvey takes it, with some hesitation, not expecting the gesture. A droplet escapes the corner of his mouth.
Then Mike leans forward, thumbs it off, and proceeds to lick it off his own finger. Harvey freezes. The expression might seem curious to some, perhaps even bashful, but—
There’s a knock at the door.
Mike immediately perks up to greet their delivery guy, peeling himself away. Their food is here. Harvey shakes his head aggressively, reeling from the whiplash. Mike’s breath lingers, seared into him like a memory, like a punishment.
Mike Ross is drowning. And he’s adamant to drag Harvey down with him.
Instead of grabbing a life vest, Harvey goes to clear up space for them to eat.
10:01:58.
He didn’t mean to see it.
Harvey, despite being absolutely gobsmacked, tidies up the coffee table despite Mike’s jabs of are you going to clean my bathroom while you’re at it? because the mess is just a little too much to handle. He tosses the utensils in the overflowing sink, careful not to knock over the jenga tower of plates and glasses, and opens the garbage can and sees it in full glory.
Hand-written but drafted nonetheless, he would recognize Mike’s scrawl blind, with only the pads of his fingertips tracing over the pen’s path: Letter of Resignation.
Harvey stares at it, before silently closing the lid.
Mike is still talking when he makes his way back to the living room, talking about some court case that would likely be moot in twenty years time due to climate change. To anyone else, Mike might actually look normal. His hands gesticulate to emphasize a point, sentences fully structured and ideas well formed. But he’s not excited; he’s manic. His hands are shaking, syllables blurring together rapidly in his haste to talk to Harvey. There hasn’t been a blink in at least five minutes.
Cutting in unsympathetically, “I’ve got a fun idea.”
Mike trails off, eyes narrowed. “Another one? Not much time left.” Harvey doesn’t disagree with him. Barring unconsciousness, Mike has the uncanny knack to track time down almost to the minute.
“You’ll like it.” Harvey stoops down and swipes his hand underneath the coffee table, showing the deck of cards. It’s an old deck, clearly worn down with time and soft even through the box.
With a low whistle, Mike raises both hands. “I didn’t think you’re the type to shake down a grieving guy.”
“I’m just taking the whole Vegas metaphor a step further.” Harvey pulls up a chair and starts to shuffle. The cards easily snap and bend against his fingers, echoing around the room.
“Texas Hold ‘Em?”
“Let’s keep it simple.”
“Blackjack, then.”
“High-low.”
That makes Mike recoil. “What are we, five? We might as well play Go Fish.”
Harvey shrugs, dealing face down. “I’ll play house.”
Mike remains unimpressed. “Wow, Viva Las Vegas. This is almost better than the weather network.”
“Oh, but you didn’t ask what we’re betting.” Harvey gives him his best smile. “A question.”
“A question,” he repeats, unconvinced.
“Winner asks loser anything.”
A silence floats between them. “That’s a lot,” Mike responds eventually. “For a game of High-Low.”
Harvey is fully aware. It’s crossed his mind, the implication of what he’s putting both of them through. But Mike is rotting in his armor, and Harvey must pull it off of him before it rusts and sets on him permanently. He responds by placing a hand atop of his card, waiting for Mike to join him. On a night like this, where it feels like Harvey is tiptoeing through carnage, at the very least there is this; Harvey goes, Mike follows.
It means everything and nothing at all when Mike places a hand over his own card.
He meets Mike’s eyes. There is something deeply unsettling about what he sees there, both deeply familiar yet a stranger. It’s calculated, unnerving. He can pretty much see the rapid flow of thoughts happening in his prodigious brain. It’s the look Mike gives the opposing council when they’ve been undermined. It’s the look he gives his enemies, their enemies. It’s the look that Mike gets when he obtains an ah-ha! moment that gives them the definitive upperhand. Harvey knows this look, has never been the subject of it.
Without another word, they flip. Mike, six. Harvey, three.
“Why did you actually come here?” Mike asks.
This makes the corner of Harvey’s mouth twitch upwards. Rookie, indeed. “Because I haven’t seen you in a little over a month.”
“So?”
“Ah-ah,” Harvey swipes their cards. “You want more details, you need to play. Or ask better questions.”
He rolls his eyes and reaches forward but Harvey smacks his hand out of the way. “Hold on Rain Man, let me restart.” No way in hell they’re treating this like Atlantic City. To Mike’s credit, High-Low really is child’s play: there’s absolutely no skill involved. There’s no bluffing (Harvey’s specialty), there’s no playing the man, no discernible tells or counting cards (Mike’s). There isn’t even space to intimidate or get into each other’s head the way that a normal poker table might allow. They might as well be flipping a coin. It puts them on perfect playing fields with each other, literally forcing their hand on the table. Dealer’s Choice is lady luck herself.
With a swift hand, he shuffles and deals. Mike, Jack. Harvey, eight.
“So?” Mike repeats. Harvey raises an eyebrow and Mike scoffs. “Why does it matter to you if I haven’t been there for a month?”
Better, but not by much. “Because grief is a fucking, relentless bitch. And there’s a difference between giving you space and letting you wallow in it.” Sweep, shuffle. “It’s as simple as that—” he deals deftly. “And as complicated as that.”
Mike 2, Harvey, King.
“When’s the last time you cried?” he asks, because he can’t rush into this.
“Boring.”
“Try again.”
“I haven’t.” Mike taps an unsteady on the dining table, impatient. “Next.”
Mike wins. “When’s the last time you thought about me?”
It makes sense that Mike obsesses over memory, when he himself has so much of it. “Not sure I’ve stopped.” And he promptly starts dealing. If Mike was going to comment, the moment’s passed.
Harvey wins. “The touching thing—is it a tactic or are you touch starved?”
Mike bristles. Clicks his tongue. “Touch starved, since—” He cuts himself off. Then, a pause. “And maybe a tactic.”
It’s a non-answer but he lets it slide. It feels like he’s dealing with a live bomb. His hands are rock steady.
Mike, 4. Harvey, 2. “Why do you care if I sleep with Rachel?”
The fridge kicks into high gear, whirring loudly. Harvey waits until it quiets down to answer. “It’s not Rachel, really.”
And, because Mike knows better than to ask a follow up question, he waits until the cards are dealt. Fate is kind and Harvey decides to let some emotions through. “Why did you draft a letter of resignation?” Mike flinches. With a sideways glance, he looks around the apartment, a little frantic. His eyes linger on the ash on the dining table. Harvey shakes his head. “We’ve been out for hours,” he says. “You’ll just have to be brave on your own.”
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Mike mutters. “I threw it out for a reason. I didn’t mean it.”
“Nope,” Harvey says, hard. “You weren’t supposed to draft it at all. Fuck it if I saw it, you did it.”
“I didn’t go through with it, did I?”
“It should never have existed, period. Now, answer the damn question—why did you draft a letter of resignation?”
Mike clenches his jaw. “Veto.”
“Bullshit.”
“Fuck, Harvey, because it would be easier to leave than for you to let me go.”
Harvey recoils. “Let you go?”
Mike laughs, the sound bouncing against the wall and under Harvey’s skin. “No follow ups, asshole. Deal.” He must catch the look that passes through Harvey’s expression. A shark that gets a whiff of blood in the water. “You don’t like that tone I took with you.” Mike laughs but there’s no joy in it. He’s not even smiling. Snatching the cards from across the table, Mike shuffles and deals in the span of a second. “Pick it up.”
Without looking away from him, Harvey flips. Jack.
Mike has an 8, and with a flair of theatrics, gestures for Harvey to go.
And Harvey is finally out of patience. "You think that the only reason I'd keep you around is if you're useful or entertainment. Through work or sex, is that what you think?"
It’s the lowest blow and the effect is immediate. Mike blanches, going deathly pale, his jaw drops in shock. "Shut the fuck up."
“You really thought I wasn’t going to bring this up? That’s insulting.” There’s a moment where he considers holding back, for Mike. But he’s not that selfless. “You’ve been goading me on all damn night. You’re traipsing around, doing whatever the hell you want, stepping on me, stepping on us—”
“And do you hate it?” Mike gets on his feet, and he’s not yelling but his voice is hoarse. “Do you hate that I do that?”
“Yes,” Harvey admits, and he doesn’t get up, doesn’t allow himself to join Mike even if it’s his instinct to. “But not because I’m offended, no, I’m not that soft.” Jabbing a finger at Mike, “It’s because I know you loathe acting like this.”
Mike grits his teeth. “You don’t fucking know that.”
Harvey feigns surprise. “Really? Is that why you’ve been baiting me all night, deciding between being pissy and—” he gestures at him, can’t get past the sting of putting it into words. Of their intimacy being weaponized against him. “You hate this. You hate what you’re doing but you can’t stop because you get off on self-sabotage.”
“Shut up.”
“You get high even though you haven’t had cravings in months, you couldn’t leave Trevor even when he hated you, used you—”
“Shut the fuck up.” It comes out as choked but Harvey takes his own advice and keeps pressing. The distance between them feels like he’s standing next to a land mine and he’s ready to run straight in.
“And now you want to throw this away? Do anything else. Sleep with Rachel, smoke up, but you don’t get to leave, Michael. You do not get to fucking leave, get that through your head.”
“And who the hell do you think you’re holding on to, Harvey?” Mike starts pacing the room, shoulders up to his ears and he’s getting louder and if Harvey had half a mind left he’d worry about the neighbors. “Who did you think you’d find here? The same guy who you see in Manhattan, wearing big ties and winning big suits? Who are you trying to stop from resigning? Who am I for you to fucking care this much?”
“Because it’s you.”
“And who the fuck am I?” Mike rounds on him, eyes huge and there’s anger, so much, but it looks like he hardly even sees Harvey. “Who am I? Because I don’t know anymore. I’ve been stuck here for so long that maybe there’s nothing left of me. Maybe—” he runs a hand through his hair, laughs again. “Maybe this is it. Maybe this is who I actually am, and the Mike Ross of Pearson Hardman is gone. Six feet under. That a part of me was in the coffin that went down and now you’re stuck with the leftovers. Maybe that boy you hired doesn’t fucking exist anymore, or maybe he never existed at all.” He looks at Harvey. “Who are you even trying to save?”
It takes a moment for Harvey to take in the confession. It's been long enough that they’re probably sober at this point. Nothing to hide behind. It’s just the two of them. As always, it’s too much and never enough.
Harvey remembers their late night conversations surrounded by take out. Big grins and soft touches. Inside jokes and ribbing. Depositions and trials where they finish each other’s sentences, where a single glance would let the other know that they’re taking right down the fork instead of left. Wavelengths so tight that it’s not parallel, but a single line, an unbreakable connection that could pull apart the opposing council like a perfectly cooked roast. Even a cynic like him can say that it's the closest that magic will ever come to existing in their world.
Perhaps Mike is right. Perhaps this really is who he is now, that grief morphed him into someone that Harvey doesn’t know. But this, too, is Mike. Harvey may not be as quick of a study as Mike is, but he's a fast learner. He will learn who this is.
Right here, in this liminal space, Harvey speaks in truth. “It’s you,” he tells him. He’s tired, but the words come out clear. “It’s you I came here for.”
Mike stares. “You hate me right now.” It comes out insistent. Petulant.
“No, Mike. I don’t.” He can hold all of Mike, all the worst things that he is, up to a light and not even flinch. “I don’t.”
“You’re lying.”
Hand to his chest and one in the air, Harvey musters up a grin, a challenge of his own. “I’m not.” Show me who you are. Every disgusting facet of yourself, splay it on the table and watch if I leave.
“You hate me.”
Shaking his head, “I don’t,” he says. And it’s late—early?—enough to admit, “I don’t think I can.”
Mike is shaking, trembling. “You can,” he insists. “You can. It’s not hard. Hate me, hate me for what I am. Look at me and hate me.”
Harvey looks at him and can’t stop the smile that spreads there. “It’s just you, kid.”
A horrible noise rips out of his throat, and he grabs Harvey by the shoulders. “You have to hate me.” It’s as if he’s trying to yell, to scream, but it comes out broken. “Hate me so you can leave me.”
“I can’t,” he confesses, and it’s a weight off his shoulders to say it out loud. The realization came to Harvey sooner in their partnership that he can ever admit. Mike can do anything, can fuck up through ignorance and malice, and Harvey will chew him out. They will fight and it will be bloody. But he will never let him go. “I really can’t.”
Acceptance of that fact doesn’t land well with Mike. Emotions flicker through him like bad TV, and he takes a step back. Harvey knows what’s coming next, but all he has the time for is to brace for impact when his fist slams into him.
“Liar!” Mike drags Harvey up by his shirt, both of them on their feet now, unsteady. He can barely hear over the sudden throbbing of his left eye, his cheekbone. “Everybody leaves. Trevor, Jenny, gram—” he shakes his head and latches onto his anger like a prayer, like it’s all he knows. “You will too. You’ll realize who I am and be disgusted with me.”
“Mike—” he grunts out and is cut off by a powerful right hook. It’s enough to knock Harvey off his feet, falling backwards and taking down a pile of empty takeout containers and a stack of books. This time he takes it on the mouth, the tang of rust spreading across his tongue.
“You’ll want to wash your hands of me. Kick me to the curb, realize I’m a failure.”
“You’re not a failure.” He resists the urge to spit and swallows it instead, the blood down his throat.
“Hate me.” Mike is begging now. “Hate me, make this easy.”
Despite everything, Harvey laughs. He can’t help it. “As if you’ve ever been easy on me.”
Mike looks at him, and Harvey stumbles. Because the look on his face is something that Harvey can’t handle. The only thing that makes him draw back from Mike.
With unnerving grace, he gets on his knees, between Harvey’s legs. “Harvey,” he says, honey sweet, and Harvey’s breath hitches.
“Stop.”
Instead of responding, Mike shuffles forward, and for the first time tonight, Harvey shuffles back. Runs away. “Mike.”
“Harvey.” He places his hands on the top of Harvey’s thighs; an offer, a threat. His fingertips are dark, burnt from who knows how many blunts he’s smoked this month. “Let me make you feel good.”
“Stop,” he rasps out, and he’s so dizzy, the world’s axis tilting over until he doesn’t know where to look. “Mike.”
He’s sick. He’s nauseous. Bitter smoke combined with watching Mike, purple eye bags and grief-ridden seducing him on the dirty sofa with dead-eyes and a shake to his bottom lip. “Don’t you want this?” Mike asks, and like a siren from the depths of Harvey’s darkest fantasies, places his cheek on Harvey’s inner thigh. “Don’t you want me?”
Harvey inhales. Holds it. Feels his lungs quake. Exhales. The truth burns like a brand. “Not like this.”
There’s a sharp sting, and Harvey’s suddenly facing the other way, another punch rocketing through his skull. He’s grateful for it. The pain he can focus on. The pain is easier than the hurt.
Then Mike goes in again, this time getting his jaw. His cheek. He’s getting sloppier, Harvey notices, consciousness somewhere above them. Aim is poor, posture is cracking and Mike is still yelling and Harvey is taking it. A glorified punching bag. Rip me up, he wants to tell him, because he knows Mike appreciates reassurances. Go too far. You have my permission.
Weakly, blindly, because his eyes are having trouble staying open, Harvey places his index finger on Mike’s wrist before he throws his next punch. Not to stop him, no. But to give him audience. I’ll witness you at your lowest and I will take you as you are. “Sorry,” Harvey hears himself say. “I’m sorry.”
It makes Mike stop in his tracks. “What…?” he whispers, confounded. His knuckles are bruised but even now, with violence cloaking him, Harvey is relaxed. Because it really is just Mike. “What are you possibly apologizing for?”
“For—” he wheezes out, clearing his throat. In his hazy state of mind, he looks at Mike. Thinks about the whole month that Mike wallowed here by himself. Planned the funeral. Didn’t come in for work, no living relatives. Giving space? What a fucking joke. “Because I left you alone when you needed me. I shouldn’t have done that. That must’ve been hard.”
Mike reels back slightly, flinching, and Harvey keeps going. “When my dad died—” Empty bottles of liquor on the floor. Chain smoking for weeks. Jessica banging on the door. “I couldn’t deal. I didn’t want to. There’s a lot of shit that I did to myself that I’m not proud of.” Even the memory makes him swallow. “So give it to me. Everything you’ve got.”
There’s a deliberate blankness in Mike’s eyes, and when he raises his fist once more, Harvey doesn’t even flinch. He juts his jaw out like an offering. I’m all yours.
A twitch, a breath. The light flickers. And Mike throws himself forward.
Harvey doesn’t see it coming, instinctively prepares for the blow. An oof! gets ripped out of his rib cage as Mike lands squarely in his chest. There’s a terrible sound, and he’s disoriented from the impromptu beating, so it takes a moment to realize that it’s finally happened.
Mike is crying. Entire frame shaking, breath racketting like a bad engine and the sound of it is enough to completely disarm Harvey. It’s a blessing and a curse that his face is in the crook of Harvey’s neck. He’s not sure if he can survive seeing a shattered Mike in his arms. “Harvey—”
Softly, he shushes him. The angle is awkward, Mike’s wrist folded in a way that can’t seem comfortable because he refuses to let go of Harvey’s dress shirt. Instead of holding him hostage, it’s like he’s holding on to a lifeline. Harvey wants to just give it to him. He’ll give him anything. Without hesitation, his fingers find Mike’s nape, scratching upwards towards his scalp. “I know, kid. I know.”
“I’m trying so hard.”
“I know you are,” he reassures him, fighting to keep his voice steady. “You’re doing so good.”
“But I’m not.” Mike pulls back and the wind from Harvey’s lungs flows out in one fell swoop. Because the arrogance from before, the cruelty and malice and the flirting are stripped away. What’s left is Mike. Vulnerability on full display. Within arm’s reach. Unravelled. Familiar. There you are, Harvey wants to tell him. I missed you. “I was terrible.”
“You’re in pain.” It’s not a denial. “You’re allowed to be terrible.”
His grip on Harvey’s shirt tightens, teeth grit like he physically wants to stop the tears but the flow regardless, without his permission. It’s at this point that Mike loses it for the umpteenth time—each one different, each one unique enough that it throws Harvey off kilter. Bring it on.
“It killed me to be that way. But it would kill me not to be that way, too.” There’s a resentment strung across his words at his obfuscation. Mike is clever; confusion, above all, frustrates him. “And I don’t like being mean. That’s not me.” Harvey continues petting his hair, letting him tire himself out. Mike prattles on. “I’m good. I promise I’m good, I won’t be a burden. I’ll be easy. I always make things easy, don’t I? Please, stay. Please don’t leave.”
It’s as if he’s a stray in a shelter, too scared to eat from someone’s palm. Harvey carefully does not think about what other damage has been done to Mike. What he has yet to learn about the person in his arms. Time and place. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Mike continues, and every time it seems like the sobs are slowing down, it ramps again. A never-ending parabola, the shape of it like an ECG that tracks the motion of a heart. “I’m sorry.” Apologies are starting to sound like commas. “I’m not what you signed up for. I help you with difficult things. I’m not supposed to be the difficult thing. I’m sorry, I just don’t want to be alone. I can’t be alone anymore. Please, I’m so scared that you’d leave me, and if you leave I’ll—“ he chokes then, and Harvey can hardly watch, feels sick to his stomach. Watching Mike torture himself feels like getting his throat cut; terminal, intimate. Yet Harvey can’t imagine being anywhere else. “I won’t know what to do. There’s nothing left for me.”
There’s no possible words to say to that, nothing he can do to prop up the crumbling mountain. So Harvey wraps his arms around Mike’s neck, cradling the back of his head, bracing the two of them. “You’re not difficult,” he mutters, hides his face in his hair. “I know difficult. And this? This has nothing on us.” Leaning in close, Harvey allows himself a brush of lips against Mike’s temple, butterfly-light. “So keep going. I’ll be here to take all of it.”
Mike’s entire frame shakes and it feels like the earth is cracking in half. Harvey tightens his grip, refusing to let go. He takes it head on, unflinching. Harvey will wait out this storm, he will take the brunt of any thundering within Mike’s heart and be glad for it. The army can burst in here and Harvey will not move an inch, will give up his life on this floor until his skeleton is permeated into the wooden slats and Mike will still be in his arms, unharmed, untouched.
Harvey can’t take away his grief, his pain. But he can do this.
12:04:09.
It’s a long time before Mike falls asleep.
They’re both on the kitchen floor, never having bothered to get up. Harvey has his back against the counter with Mike’s head in his lap, snoring lightly. Mouth slightly open, he doesn’t so much as twitch while he sleeps. REM doing its job right. He looks so young like this and Harvey can’t help but marvel at it.
Glancing around, Harvey huffs a silent laugh at the strewn of cards on the ground like it’s New Year’s Eve confetti. He idly looks at the mess of the upturned cards and how he’s somehow surrounded by hearts.
He rubs his eyes, yawning. There hasn’t been a day in the past month that he’s been able to sleep more than five hours. Finally, feels his energy dwindling.
Through the tiniest sliver of exposed window, sunlight creeps in, high and bright. They’re well into a new day, and if he strains to hear it, can likely hear the beginnings of New York City traffic of people hustling to get into work, to live their lives.
Checking one last time to see that Mike is comfortable, Harvey leans his head back and lets his eyes slide shut.
There’s a lot to do when they wake up, but for now they will rest. For now, this is enough.
14:22:37.