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It's 85 degrees out at 7am and Mike is biking to work because he's an idiot. He's an idiot because his gorgeous boyfriend slash boss asked him if he wanted to stay over until the heat wave passes, like a trial run of sorts, and instead of saying yes, Mike freaked the hell out and said that he didn't mind the heat. No, actually, he loves it. Back when he was a bike messenger he would be out there delivering packages in all sorts of weather so he's absolutely fine in his Brooklyn apartment with no air conditioning. He’s good. Really.
Mike had thought leaving early would help him beat the worst of the heat. It doesn't. The air in Manhattan is so humid and stagnant it feels like breathing in the city's stale burps.
He's only halfway to the firm and he already knows he'll be spending the day in his spare suit. His dress shirt looks like he entered a corporate white t-shirt contest. He's also going to need to get a day pass to the gym downstairs and take a shower. Bullpen, suit, gym, shower, bullpen. And then he just has to work a 10-hour day while simultaneously avoiding Harvey's pointed looks and Donna's pointed questions and Louis's uncanny ability to point out everything Mike's done wrong since he woke up that morning.
A bus passes on the left and Mike gets treated to mouthful of engine exhaust. He adds brush teeth to his mental to-do list.
This is so stupid. He could be sipping espresso in Harvey's kitchen right now, checking out the curve of Harvey's ass in those perfectly tailored trousers he spends so much money on. Mike had never understood why someone would spend that much on clothes. Who needs custom made clothes besides Andre the Giant? But then he watched Harvey get dressed one morning and the precision... it took Mike's breath away. He'd never noticed before that Harvey doesn't wear belts. The dude doesn't need any. His body has been sculpted from pure Italian marble and he works out three times a week to keep it that way. Why would he hide that in size medium pants? The only thing with the word medium on the tag in Harvey's wardrobe is an old Harvard t-shirt and some pajama bottoms because apparently rich people don't have sizes, only measurements.
Mike's closet is full of sizes. Small, medium, large. Old band t-shirts. Jeans with grease stains. A faded pair of Converse he can't seem to part with. Half of it came from thrift shops. He tries to imagine his favourite Joy Division t-shirt in the closet next to Harvey's anything and cringes. Literally. Mike is now biking and cringing. Someone on the sidewalk notices and looks at him weird.
Mike ignores them. They don't understand. Harvey doesn't understand. The two of them are too different. Yes, they have nearly identical tastes in movies. And food. And a lot of other stuff. And the sex is... great now Mike is biking and blushing. At least it's better than cringing. Random pedestrians won't notice because he's already bright red because he's biking in a heatwave like an idiot.
He could be trying to coax Harvey back into bed for a quickie right now. It rarely works. But sometimes, when Mike gets his way, he'll leave a little hickey on Harvey's collarbone and then stare at it through his shirt for the rest of the day. Whenever Harvey tries to chide him for it and tell him it was juvenile, Mike will just smirk and remind him it's his own fault for robbing the cradle.
Ugh. If he was at Harvey's right now he could be straddling him on the edge of the bed. They could be falling back into sheets with a higher thread count than Mike's zip code.
But they're not. Because Mike is an idiot. He could've said any one of 146 other things to sidestep Harvey's offer of a 'trial run.' He could've said Hey, things are moving kind of fast for me, we've only been together together for a few weeks and yeah, I know we've been fucking each other's brains out for almost a year but I'm going to need a minute here. Or No, I like my spot in Brooklyn despite the rats in the basement where I do my laundry. I named them Fred and Ethel. Yes, like I Love Lucy - of course you'd get that reference.
How long is this heat wave supposed to last again? Three days? Three days means six rides. That's doable. It'll suck, but it's doable. Mike really did used to deliver packages year-round in heat like this and that was barely two years ago. He can't have gone too soft in such a short amount of time.
A cab cuts it a little close and Mike's front tire nearly kisses the curb as he swerves out of the way.
Come on!
The last thing he needs right now is to superman over the handlebars and wipe out on the pavement, show up to work all bruised and bloody, and have Harvey tsk at him for bleeding on the floors. At least he has his helmet on - he's not a complete idiot.
He should've brought water though. Or something. Even though the humidity is making it feel like he's breathing in soup, he's dying for something to drink. Harvey has filtered water in his taps. Sink. Shower. Everything there is crisp and clean and so very Harvey. Precise. Controlled.
The water that comes from Mike's sink tastes like dirty coins. He'd never noticed it until he'd tried Harvey's. Maybe he never should've gotten involved with him. Never should've leaned in when Harvey looked at him late one night with a specific kind of hunger in his eyes. Never should've moaned when Harvey kissed him for the first time. Never should've given in to the fantasy of having it all. Fantasies aren't real. Illusions shatter. Reality hits hard. It may not have happened for Harvey yet, but it will. He'll wake up one day and see those dirty old Converse in his closet and think What the fuck am I doing? He'll let Mike down easy, because Harvey's a gentleman, but Mike will never really recover. So it's better to get out now before he gets in too deep.
He's only a couple of blocks from the building. Which is good because he's getting a headache. Probably from dehydration. He'll go to the bullpen, pop a couple of ibuprofen, drink some water, brush his teeth, get his suit, go to the gym, shower, change, and then go back to the bullpen, do some work, and then break up with Harvey right after lunch. Easy. Safe.
Except when he pulls up to the curb in front of the firm, Harvey’s there. And Mike can’t avoid him because the dude is staring right at him.
Fuuuuuck.
What kind of shit karma is he cashing in on right now? Oh yeah. Probably the whole being a fraud thing. Right. That.
“You survived,” Harvey says with that smirk that always makes Mike go light in the head.
No, seriously. Mike can’t feel his limbs all of a sudden. Usually it’s just a metaphor but now it’s-
Wow, the sky is really blue.
“You're an idiot,” Harvey says the moment Mike’s eyes blink open. “You know that, right?”
He’s kneeling next to Mike, looking all concerned and gorgeous.
Mike manages a chuckle. “You’re actually not the first person to tell me that today.”
The floor is cold on his back. Floor. Not sidewalk. Hang on.
“How’d I get in here?” Mike asks, looking around the lobby. “Where’s my bike?”
“I carried you,” Harvey says.
“That’s hot,” Mike mutters before he can stop himself.
“And your bike’s locked up where you left it. You don’t remember?”
“It’s just fuzzy.” Mike tries to sit up, but Harvey puts a firm hand on his chest. “I’m okay. Let me up.”
“Security wanted to call an ambulance,” Harvey says, tossing a glance back over his shoulder. “I told them my boyfriend just needed a minute.”
Oh no. Boyfriend? They’ve barely told anyone at the office and now George the security guy knows?
“Harvey,” Mike says, perching up on his elbows. “I need to-”
George appears over Harvey’s shoulder and hands him something.
Is that…
“Seriously?” Mike groans. “Isn’t this embarrassing enough?”
Harvey pokes the straw through the top of the juice box and holds it out. “Drink.”
This might actually be the worst moment of Mike’s life. No, that’s dramatic. Top five, though. Definitely.
Mike sips from the proffered straw until the box gurgles.
Harvey’s still looking at him all concerned and gorgeous. Well, less concerned now. Which only makes him more gorgeous.
“You’re too good to me,” Mike mumbles. Maybe Harvey should’ve called the ambulance. Then they could be having this conversation in an ER waiting room and not in the lobby of the place they both work.
“What are you talking about?” Harvey asks, catching on immediately.
Mike floats a hand in the air. “You’re up here, I’m down here.”
Harvey says nothing, but that concerned look is back.
Mike decides to drop the bomb. “I can’t move in with you.”
Harvey doesn’t react. He should be reacting. He should be getting pissed or cracking a joke or something.
“Why not?”
“Because,” Mike sighs, dropping his shoulders back to the floor. He stares up at the super high ceiling. It’s easier to talk to faraway plaster than the man who carried him in here like an action hero. “I’m not on your level. Or in your league or whatever. You’re like hall of fame status and I’m lucky to be pinch hitting in the minors.”
“Right,” Harvey says with a heavy note of sarcasm. “And you just realised this today?”
“Yesterday,” Mike corrects. “Technically. I’ve thought about and… I think we should break up.”
“Uh-huh,” Harvey says, shifting his weight to the other knee.
“I’m doing you a favor,” Mike explains.
“So this is what it’s like,” Harvey says with a hint of a smile.
Wait.
Why is he smiling?
Mike tips his head up and sure enough…
“Stop laughing. I’m being serious down here.”
“Sorry,” Harvey says, fixing his face with a performative frown. “I’ve just never been on the receiving end of an excuse this bad. Usually I’m the one making them.”
“It’s not an excuse!”
“What is it then?”
“A reason.”
“Right,” Harvey chuckles. “Come on.”
He gets to his feet, then pulls Mike to his.
Mike wobbles for half a second before he finds his balance. He waves at George who still looks ready to call 911.
Harvey hands Mike his messenger bag then leads the way towards the elevator.
“We’re not breaking up,” Harvey says matter of fact.
“We’re not?”
“No.”
For some reason that’s a relief. “Oh.”
“You think I don’t know who you are? You think I’m under some illusion that your diet doesn’t consist of burritos and Red Bull when we’re not together?”
That’s literally what Mike thinks. He scrunches his face up. “No?”
The elevator is empty when they step on. The doors slip closed.
“When I told you I loved you, I wasn’t talking about some version of you that might exist in the future. I’ve known who you are since you spilled a briefcase full of weed at my feet, and there’s never been anything about you that doesn’t measure up.”
“Literally the first thing you did when you hired me was tell me to buy better suits.”
“Because that’s the world we operate in. Impressions matter.” Harvey says, smirking. “And by the way you stare at my ass in the morning I can tell you’ve learned to appreciate what good tailoring does.”
“You, uh… noticed that, huh?”
Harvey shoots him a look. “I’m surprised there aren’t drool stains on my floor.”
“Okay,” Mike admits with a sigh. “Maybe I overreacted.”
“Maybe?”
“A little.”
“A little?”
“Won’t happen again.”
“Yes it will,” Harvey says, putting his arm around Mike’s waist and pulling him closer. “Don’t worry. I’ll just add it to the list of things I love about you.”
Mike finds himself smiling, warmth filling his chest in a good way for the first time that day. “I love you, too.”