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Mike is well aware he lives in a shithole. It’s New York, and while he’s making money now, he wasn’t exactly rolling in the dough between LSAT stints. His apartment is what a landlord would call ‘industrial chic’, and what anyone else on the corner would call an overpriced, good-for-nothing, shoebox on life support.
Sure, it has its perks–for one, it’s an apartment in New York. Mike doesn’t mind the death-rattle of his fridge, or the constant whir of his air conditioning that never seemed to make the place any hotter or colder than 69 (on a good day). He has even deluded himself into thinking the occasional roach in his kitchen is not only a sign from God that his place is habitable enough for a cockroach, but that the roach chose his apartment over all the others.
Pure delusion, but it was a thought that passed through his mind when he was high, and when Mike is high, any thought is practically a revolutionary thought, and so, it stuck.
So, for all the shit his apartment gives him, he refuses to give it up.
Until a heatwave hits New York.
It’s apparently revolutionary stuff–temperatures in the high nineties, with lows of only seventy-eight or seventy-nine. Mike gets one, one, precious day off, and he doesn’t intend to spend it soaking up UV rays in Brooklyn. Most of the Sunday passes by like this: Mike waking up with his boxers sticking to his thighs, cranking down the air conditioning, knowing nothing will come of it, lying on the couch with a damp washcloth on his head, drinking orange juice from the carton, and not thinking about Pearson-Hardman.
Failing at not thinking about Pearson-Hardman. He can’t help it! If he isn’t thinking about being fired, he’s thinking about the cases, and if it’s not the cases, it’s the cold-shoulder Rachel is giving him. If it’s not Rachel, it’s Louis and the cuticle scissors Mike hid underneath the potted plant (just for the hell of it), and if it’s not Louis, it’s Harvey.
Needless to say, Sunday avalanched halfway through, and the next thing Mike knew, he was tossing and turning in bed, sweating through his clothes and soaking his sheets. Now, he lies awake, on his back, staring at the water-stained popcorn ceiling.
This damned apartment. He should’ve moved when he had the chance. Or, at least, bought a fan. One of those industrial ones in the Pantene commercials that makes the model’s hair all flowy.
Outside, the streets of Brooklyn are somehow alive. A car honks, a woman sneezes, a man slams on the brakes, glass shatters, a rap song booms, headlights illuminate the opposite wall, and crickets sing. He can’t sleep like this, and he has to be in the office at eight in the morning.
Approximately. Roughly. Somewhere in that time frame.
Mike has nowhere else to go. Well, there’s one place, but it's a toss-up. He won’t do it; Mike doesn’t even want to try. No way it’ll work, and no way will he even pass the threshold. Right? Right. It’s silly to think about.
Mike lasts another twenty-eight minutes before groaning, slipping on a hoodie and sweatpants, and grabbing his phone.
Harvey’s it is.
Harvey’s it is not.
Mike is drenched by the time he makes it to Harvey’s front door, and his bike is locked near the corner store. He barely gets three knocks in before Harvey throws open the door, clad in nothing but sleep pants and an undone robe. Are the pants fucking silk? How much goddamn money is he making to afford silk sleep pants?
“What the hell are you doing here, Mike?” Harvey’s voice is sleep-wrecked and gravely. His hair, for once, isn’t perfectly gelled back like a more-lippy Don Johnson. Instead, it’s slightly wavy and sticking up in all directions.
It’s actually cute–in a ‘this-is-my-boss’ sort of way.
Mike does not look at Harvey’s bare chest. Well, he tries. But his chest is just right there, and practically screaming: Mike, Mike, Mike.
“My air conditioning is broken,” Mike says. A bead of sweat drips off his chin and onto the carpeted hallway floor.
Harvey inhales sharply and rubs a hand over his brow. “Let me ask you something, Mike. Do I look like I’m holding a wrench?”
“No.”
“Right answer. How about a toolkit? You see one of those anywhere?”
“No.”
“And what day might it be today?”
“Sunday.”
“Very astute. And tomorrow, what day is that?”
“Monday.”
“And what is it we typically do on Mondays?”
“Go to work.”
“Go to work! Ding-ding-ding, the puppy’s a genius. So, if I don’t have tools, and we work first thing tomorrow, I ask again, what the hell are you doing here?”
A blush has made its way to Mike’s cheeks, and he’s–somehow–growing impossibly hotter. “I need somewhere to sleep.”
“I’m not a halfway home for shitty associates.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re snippy when you’re tired?”
“Goodbye, Mike.” Harvey goes to slam the door, but Mike jams his shoe in between the door and the frame. “For God’s sake, cmon’ then.”
Inside, the penthouse is a modern-luxury HGTV ad, complete with marble and quartz accents and round-edged countertops. Mike feels like he’s making the place dirty by just breathing in it.
It’s dim, save for the single lamp near the door, casting amber light in the entryway. Tall shadows stretch across the hardwood.
Harvey snaps and points to the sleek black couch. “You. Couch. Me. Bedroom. Goodnight, Mike.”
And with that, Harvey disappears around the corner. Mike hears a door close with a little more force than necessary.
Harvey’s penthouse overlooks Manhattan, tall enough that, truly, Mike doesn’t even need the light to see. Not with all these stars winking at him. He stands there for a while, watching the occasional plane pass by him, peering down toward the cars in the street. If he doesn’t think too hard, he can imagine living in a place like this.
He’d look at this view every night, maybe every morning. Taking it in, slow, like he’s sipping a drink. Of course, the penthouse would have to be a bit more…homely. The shelf of records can stay, but the chairs and couches have to go. Maybe a loveseat, or two. A couch in jeweled tones, plush, one of those couches you can really sink into. More lamps–and lamps that actually look like lamps, not steampunk pretending to be lamps–less black, more art. Is Harvey into art? Maybe they can meet halfway and get a painting of a basketball or something. Oh, maybe they can knock out a pillar or two, have a wall instead, and get some separation in here.
A rug would be nice. So would a bookshelf. Jesus, the bookshelf he could put in this penthouse could make a public library weep. He has to talk to Harvey about it, for sure, maybe a couple of shelves in the living room, bedroom–
He has got to stop.
If Mike doesn’t catch himself, he often goes this far, too far, starts thinking of Harvey less like his boss, or a friend, and more like a constant: a lucky charm, or a welded bracelet. Harvey is the one person that Mike can’t picture a future without. He can’t fathom it. No matter how deep into a spiral he goes, every possibility of years ahead–fired or not, lawyer or has-been–there’s Harvey. Laughing. Angry. Giving Mike shit.
He’s always there.
“You know,” Harvey says, leaning on a pillar, “when I said couch, I meant you on it. Horizontal. With your eyes closed.”
When did he even get here? He’s like a cat. “You have a nice view.”
“Yes,” Harvey says. “I do.”
Harvey’s not looking out the window. Mike doesn’t touch that thought with a twelve-foot pole.
“Are you going to fall asleep out here?” Harvey asks.
Mike shrugs. “If I said yes, would you let me stay?”
“I’d let you stay regardless, Mike, you know that.”
For once, Mike doesn’t want to argue. It’s true. “I know.”
Harvey stares into him for several moments. Mike gets this odd feeling in his stomach, like the moment just before the drop on a rollercoaster. His stomach is hollowed out, his pulse is thrumming. If hearts could clench, Mike’s would.
“Come on,” Harvey says, pushing off the pillar. He doesn’t wait for Mike to respond, just heads down the hall to his room, knowing Mike would follow.
Harvey’s bedroom has a floor-to-ceiling window, too, paired with a king bed. The sheets are dark and rumpled, and a throw blanket is half-hanging off the bed.
Harvey climbs into bed and settles in, his arms folded behind his head. He’s looking at Mike, eyebrows raised as if to say, ‘well, come on then.’
Mike doesn’t know what this is other than uncharted territory. He steps toward the bed, but Harvey shakes his head once.
“Don’t bring your sweaty clothes into my bed.”
“What? A little sweat fucks up your one-thousand thread count?”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re snippy when you’re tired?” Harvey spits back, a smile playing on his lips. Harvey has the sort of smile that makes Mike want to smile, and he isn’t sure what to do with that feeling. It’s different from Rachel, and it’s light-years away from Jenny. This feeling is fresh, with echoes of the way Mike felt when he was twelve. That was a rough time for him, but he remembers looking at Trevor one day and wondering if his lips were chapped or soft. Wondering if it was okay to wonder that about someone. About a boy.
Mike sheds his hoodie and pants, standing in nothing but his socks and boxers. Harvey beckons him with the jut of his chin.
The bed is slightly warm and smells like Old Spice and sandalwood.
“Comfortable?”
Mike nods. “Yeah. You?”
Harvey snorts. “Yes. Turn around.”
Mike turns around so that he’s facing the door. Behind him, Harvey shifts, and one arm wraps around Mike’s torso. His skin burns where Harvey’s touching it, and it's not from the heatwave. The blood in his body rushes south, and Mike shifts his legs in an attempt to hide the very obvious tent.
Nevertheless, Harvey asks, his breath tickling Mike’s ear, “Is this okay?”
Is this okay? Mike’s punching so high, cloud nine feels like a ditch.
But for all of his bravado, his voice comes out a bit hoarse. “It’s okay.”
“Go to sleep.”
And Mike tries, he really does, but Harvey’s chest is on his back, and his foot is grazing Mike’s ankle, and it's too much.
“Sleep,” Harvey says again. “You’re thinking too loud.”
Mike does not whimper, but he does groan. It just sounds a bit whiny on the uptake. “Can we put a wall in the living room?”
If Harvey hears him, he doesn’t respond immediately. But when he does, his tone is laced with mirth. “You know I have pillars in there, right?”
“Knock them down. Put a wall. We could be the Property Brothers.”
“You want us to renovate my living room?”
“I want a wall.” It shouldn’t–and doesn’t–matter what Mike wants. It’s a total foot, please go in my mouth, sort of moment, but his brain isn’t getting the hint. “And a better couch.”
“You didn’t even try my couch. Vetoed.”
“The wall wasn’t vetoed.”
“No, it was not.” Harvey pulls him in tighter. “What’s with the suggestions, Joanna Gaines?”
“I was just thinking about it.”
“Thinking about your interior design choices for my apartment? You plan on staying here long-term?”
“Are you looking for a roommate?”
“Depends,” Harvey says, his nose burying in Mike’s hair, “can you afford the rent?”
“Can we negotiate the terms of the lease?”
“Mike. Sleep is a precious, non-renewable resource.”
“That’s factually incorrect.”
“Mike.”
“One more question!”
Harvey mumbles something along the lines of, ‘I swear, I’m going to kill this kid,’ before huffing and propping himself up on a forearm.
At this, Mike turns onto his back so that he needs to look straight up to see Harvey. This close, Mike can smell the mint of Harvey’s toothpaste. Does Harvey know he has freckles? Faint ones, just under his eyes.
“Am I really a shitty associate?”
Harvey furrows his brows, searching for the memory. When he finds it, his face softens–even the little line between his brows. “No, Michael. You’re not.”
Mike nods. “Are we good partners, do you think?”
“I’d say so. Where is this coming from?”
“If Jessica decides she’s had enough–”
“--Mike, we’ve been over this.”
“If Jessica decides she’s had enough,” Mike continues, “would we ever speak again?”
“Mike, do you really think I’d ever stop being your partner?”
Mike can’t stomach the thought. “Sometimes I really am a shitty associate. I lie, I go behind your back, sometimes I don’t tell you everything, I mess up cases, and I’ve made your life hell for the most part.”
“Are you done?”
“Just about.”
“Do you want to know what I think?” Harvey leans in. His eyes are so dark, they’re black. Swallowing Mike up.
“What?”
Harvey closes the distance and kisses him. His lips are soft, warm. Mike arches up, just so. It’s not a heavy kiss–no tongue, no wandering hands. Just a kiss. A kiss to end as a kiss and nothing more. Mike breathes in Harvey’s scent and feels the slight twitch of Harvey’s cheek against his.
When he pulls back, Mike keeps his eyes closed, riding the aftershocks. And when he speaks, he’s nearly overwhelmed. “You kissed me.”
“I kissed you.”
“How long have you been wanting to do that?”
“For a while.”
“What if I didn’t come tonight?”
“Then I would’ve continued to wait.”
Something in Mike settles. Warm and fuzzy. He feels like a high schooler who’s just been asked to the prom.
Mike turns, a smile stuck on his face. “Cuddle me, then.”
“You are very demanding.” Harvey settles in behind him, his arm right back where it should be. “Sleep, Mike.”
And this time, Mike closes his eyes; his bones are Jell-O.
And in the darkness of the night, he says, “You pined over me like a lovesick schoolgirl.”
“Mike.”