Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It began with donuts.

Specifically, donuts from Louis.

The donuts themselves were rather unobtrusive. An assortment of glazed, iced, and sprinkled, all wrapped up in a powder pink box bearing the name of the uncontested best bakery in Manhattan, the kind of place that required a multi-week preorder to receive anything more than the day-old, plain glazed donut holes no one really wanted. The issue wasn't the pastries themselves, but rather their carrier.

"Alright, I'm freaked," Harold muttered as he came to perch himself on the edge of Mike's desk. "Did you see the box of donuts Louis put in our breakroom?"

"Maybe he's just in a good mood, Harold," Mike said. He pulled his gaze from his computer screen and spun in his chair to study the other associate, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew what bullshit they were.

Harold, evidently, did as well. "Louis? In a good mood? The same guy who blew up on Lisa last week for having pen ink on the side of her hand? She's left-handed!"

Mike cast a weary glance around the bullpen. No one else appeared particularly bothered by the situation, but Harold had a good point. Louis was the last person he would have expected to bring them donuts as the self-proclaimed head of the associates (read, slavedriver).

Mike sighed. "You're right. Louis is like a Star Wars fan. No one hates the associates more than him. You know, the head of the associates."

Harold snickered softly. "You think Louis is a Star Wars fan?"

"He probably thinks it's a Cold War documentary."

That got a full-blown, barking laugh from Harold. Mike couldn't help but laugh himself, and soon they were both bent over, laughing their asses off in his cubicle like two teenagers at a sleepover.

"Alright, something's definitely up if you two are over here laughing like hyenas. Also, everyone's staring."

Jimmy stood with his arms folded over the wall of Mike's desk with a crooked smirk on his face. "Seriously, though, what the hell is going on around this place? I swear to God if Keanu Reeves walks through that door, I'm quitting."

Harold snapped his fingers and formed them into a gun, pointing it at Jimmy. "Perfect reference, dude."

"To be fair, if this turns into The Matrix, I don't think our job security will be the most pressing concern," said Mike.

They were all three giggling until someone shushed them, and they forced themselves to quiet down. They may have fallen into some alternate dimension where Louis actually had a soul, but that didn't mean any of them were willing to risk ten more cases appearing out of thin air in retribution.

"Hey, by the way," Jimmy began, "I've got a plan for the lich next session. It's probably a bad one, but it doesn't have to be. If, our ever-benevolent DM were willing to, maybe, let a few things slip, that is."

Mike grinned. He pinched his fingers and drew them across his lips in a sealing motion. "What would the fun in that be?"

Ever since he could remember, he'd had an overactive imagination. Even when he had been very small, he could clearly recall the vibrantly painted images that would come to life in his mind as his mother read to him. He could see the refrigerator box with a versatility only warranted by the grandiose ideals of childhood, the way it had gone from a spaceship to a time machine to a bodega where he, quite emphatically at only five years old, argued why it was completely reasonable to charge his father thirty dollars for an imaginary grilled cheese. Inflation and such.

That was the first time someone had suggested he become a lawyer.

It was a memory Mike had never shared with anyone else, not even Grammy or Trevor. It felt too private, too sacred, like the only shred of recollection he had that he could rationalize into his parents' pride in where he was today, no matter how it came to be. It was all a façade, a desperate disguise to hide the deep-rooted shame he carried with him each day. After all, he knew imagination was the only place his parents ever could be proud of him.

A lawyer or a writer, his mother had answered with that warm smile of hers, the very one whose edges had softened, twisted, with the cruel slippage of time despite how tightly Mike held. The thing about photographic memories was that they weren't really photographic at all. Sure, he could remember, word for word, the entire menu of some boardwalk restaurant in Ocean City from when he was ten, but those were just words. They were uncaring, an emotionless grouping of phonemes people had collectively decided meant something, stood for something.

Real photographs faded. They curled and withered with time. Their dates faded, the details became murky. It became increasingly difficult to discern one face from another, one smile from the next. Things disappeared, and it was impossible to get them back. No amount of reconstruction could bring back the memories he'd lost.

So, after they had passed, he'd escaped into his own mind. He'd retreated into the one place he had always found sanctuary and surrounded himself with the indelible safeties of his own imagination. He'd thrown himself into a world where his parents were still there, still alive, a world where he could control his own fate.

He had become obsessed with fantasy. He voraciously consumed anything he could get his hands on. Tolkien. Martin. Adams. Hell, even Lewis. Anything he could use to lose himself, just for a while, just long enough to stop feeling like he was spinning out of control.

In high school, he had found solace in Dungeons & Dragons. As embarrassing as it was, the game became a way for him to allow his sanctuary to leak into the real world. When he was Dungeon Master, he could control the outcome of the entire game, he could control all which he'd never been able to at only eleven-years-old.

He had been overjoyed to discover Harold was an avid fan of the game, and they had soon roped Jimmy in after the other associate had caught him and Harold gushing over a spread of character sheets in the breakroom. They'd shown him the ropes, and now he had earned himself a permanent spot in their party, along with Benjamin from IT, and Jenny Griffith.

They actually made fierce friends without Trevor around, it turned out.

"Mike's, right. It wouldn't be fair to the others if he gave us a hint."

Jimmy reached across the wall to smack the back of Harold's head. "You're just on his side because your backstory hasn't come due yet."

"Aw, c'mon, Mike wouldn't harm a poor, innocent bard—"

"Alright, listen up."

They jumped apart as Louis appeared at the bullpen doorway. The room fell into a tense silence. Everyone was clearly waiting for the other donut-shoe to drop.

Louis reached behind the doorframe and bodily dragged someone into view.

Mike's mouth nearly fell open.

He was gorgeous.

Not just conventionally attractive, either. No, he was drop-dead, just walked out of GQ gorgeous.

He was tall and lean in a charcoal suit that hugged his frame in all the right places, leaving little of his defined muscles to the imagination. His bronzy skin somehow seemed to glow under the harsh fluorescents that washed everyone else out. His chestnut locks were immaculately windswept, in a way that screamed intentional dishevelment. His pink lips quirked up in a ridiculously endearing half-smile, like he knew a particularly amusing secret. His glasses were perched on a perfect, unblemished nose.

It was like someone had dropped a Greek God right there in Pearson Hardman.

Mike immediately hated it, even as his heart beat a frantic staccato behind his ribs.

"This is Liam, our newest associate. He's a fourth-year and comes highly recommended from McNeil Carlson. Jessica herself hired him, so I'm sure he'll be running circles around you morons by lunch. Even you, Ross."

Louis shot him a wicked grin. Mike could hear a few stifled laughs, particularly from Kyle's direction. Jimmy gave his arm a comforting squeeze, and Mike smiled at him weakly, grateful.

"That being said, I've bribed you all with sugar in the hopes you won't drive him out of here with your sheer incompetency. Get back to work."

With that, Louis disappeared, leaving Liam to sashay his way to his desk, the one previously occupied by a subservient first-year who had met his ultimate demise under Louis' sharp tongue, in front of the entire associate pool.

Jimmy whistled lowly. "I didn't know we were hiring from Vogue now."

"You're telling me," Harold muttered. "You think they're outsourcing overseas now? Because I swear I've seen him on the cover of a brochure for Greece."

Mike, however, was not amused. It wasn't necessarily Liam—Adonis or otherwise; it was the implications behind his hiring, the way Louis' hand had lingered on Liam's arm a few seconds too long. It was no secret that Louis viewed the associates as no higher than the dirt on the soles of his shoes, but it seemed like he took every opportunity to remind Mike, that if they were the dirt, he was the germs that lived there. Even among the associates, Mike was singled out.

"Hey," Jimmy began, "I'm sorry about, Louis, man. That wasn't cool to call you out like that in front of everyone."

Mike shrugged. "I'm used to it."

"Why does he hate you so much anyhow?" Harold wondered.

"Because I'm Harvey's associate, and Louis always feels threatened by him. And by extension, me."

He strategically didn't mention how Louis had long been suspicious of the true nature of his relationship with Harvey, ever since he had overheard Mike in the background of a call to a culpably breathless Harvey at 11 PM. It was only by Harvey's sweet-talking charm and Louis' gullibility that he'd been convinced it was a totally platonic, totally work-related rendezvous.

As if Harvey hadn't answered the call naked, sweat-sheened, tangled up in the sheets next to Mike. He'd had a hand pressed over Mike's mouth after Louis had managed to hear the whisper-shrieked Louis!? Mike had exclaimed.

Needless to say, despite the healthy level of gaslighting, Louis remained ever diligent in his scrutiny of every movement Harvey and Mike made. And his opinion of Mike had nevertheless managed to plummet lower than rock bottom since that day. He seemed convinced that it was only Harvey's favoritism that allowed Mike to be as good as he was, and he sought out any opportunity to dethrone Mike.

"And because you're smarter than him."

Mike leaned back in his chair, far enough to get a good look at the open, purely honest expression on Harold's face. "You really think I'm smarter than Louis?"

"Uh, yeah." The way Harold said it made it sound like the most obvious fact in the world. "You're smarter than him by miles."

For some inexplicable reason, that really warmed Mike's heart. Granted, it was Harold and even a shred of competency could masquerade as intelligence in front of him, but it was nice to know someone thought so highly of him.

"Um, guys, we've got company," Jimmy muttered.

Mike swiveled his chair to see that, sure enough, Liam was headed straight for Mike's desk, an easy grin already in place. But it was too easy, too open. It was an obvious front crafted from years of experience as a corporate shark. It was a mask Mike was learning to sniff out from a mile off. Still, the sight of it sent a shiver up his spine.

"So, you're Mike Ross," he said haughtily.

Well, Mike had a mask of his own. He easily allowed his features to slip into a grin. "That's what the desk says." He stood and held out his hand. "You got a last name?"

Liam took his hand. His grip was firm, his palm warm and soft against Mike's own where the chill always seemed to linger. "Liam Fleming."

It was only then he seemed to notice the other two men standing there. "And you two are?"

Jimmy and Harold each took his hand and introduced themselves in turn. As soon as he was finished, Liam's attention was back on Mike, and he got the distinct impression that Liam would have been wiping his hand on his pants if it were socially acceptable in the moment. Jimmy, at least, must have received a similar feeling, because Mike felt him shift a tad bit closer.

"I've heard a lot about you, Mike," he spoke, like the name fit oddly into his mouth. "That short for Michael?"

"Yeah," Mike answered simply. "I'd like to say I was named after Michael Jordan, but my parents were Catholic, so alas, the Archangel."

"Were?"

"Yeah, were. They passed when I was a kid. But…" Mike narrowed his eyes, "…you would already know that, since I'm sure you researched me."

Liam held up his hands in surrender, that smug-ass, unfairly attractive grin pulling at a faint white scar above his lip. "You caught me. But, can you blame me? The great Harvey Specter, Jessica Pearson's Golden Boy, takes an associate? You got most of the law world in a stir."

"Must not be much to talk about if I'm the hottest subject," Mike shot back, swallowing around the lump forming in his throat. It was never good whenever someone started poking into his life.

Liam crossed his arms. "You'd be surprised. Some wunderkind with a photographic memory suddenly pops up at Pearson Hardman glued to Harvey Specter's side. It's quite the salon talk."

He cast a glance around the bullpen and curled his upper lip. "Bit drab, if I do say, but I suppose it'll work, at least until I get my own office." He turned back and smiled at Mike, the white of his teeth slicing a wound across his face. He never even spared Jimmy or Harold another glance. "I look forward to seeing you work, Michael."

As he walked away, Mike released a shuddering breath. He tried to discreetly press a quivering hand to his sternum, feeling the erratic thump beneath.

"I don't think we should invite him to join our Party," Harold muttered.

Mike couldn't see the look Jimmy gave him, but he could imagine it just fine. "What gave you that impression? Harold, he probably thinks D&D's an STD."

Mike thought he heard Harold mumble something about Jimmy probably having an STD from his community college girlfriend, but he was too focused on Liam's perfect head of hair across the bullpen to really listen.

A sick feeling had settled in the pit of his stomach, heavy as a stone.

By noon, Liam had the entire bullpen eating from the palm of his hand.

That wily smile had every woman he encountered practically swooning at his feet and every man ready to swap college escapades over a couple of cold ones. He wore confidence like a second skin and oozed an arrogance that prickled the hair on Mike's arms. He seemed to innately know just what he needed to be to gain any one person's trust: an incorrigible flirt, a good old-fashioned office bro, a sympathetic confidante. He slipped from one identity to another like some inveterate shapeshifter.

Mike would have found it impressive if it didn't have his skin crawling.

Finally, he had enough and retreated to the reprieve of Harvey's office. The elder man had barely acknowledged him when he'd slipped through the glass door, looking far more haggard and unsettled than a usual afternoon would warrant. Harvey had simply waved him towards the couch and silently returned to his laptop. His knowledge of what Mike needed at any given moment was just as innate as Liam's duplicity.

A sharp knock against the glass jolted Mike from Eddie Vedder's baritone pumping through his earbuds. He jerked up, hand instinctively flying to pull one from his ear. Harvey, ever put-together, simply leaned back in his chair. He quirked a curious eyebrow. "Can I help you?"

Mike swallowed hard as Liam pushed open the door, a sheepish little smile in place. He clutched a stack of files to his chest as if he couldn't quite keep a hold of them. His fingers tapped an almost nervous rhythm.

Mentally, Mike rolled his eyes. Harvey would never fall for the meek, anxious newbie shtick. He thrived off confidence and competency; he drank it in and exuded it out until everyone else around him couldn't help but feel it too. Harvey liked to be challenged in every facet of his life. The way Liam was acting, Harvey would eat him alive, and Mike was so ready for it.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr. Specter. I have some paperwork for you."

Harvey took the offered files from him wordlessly. He flicked the top one open, almost lazily. But as his eyes began to skim the page, they widened imperceptibly.

Only someone who truly knew him could see Harvey was impressed.

"Did you do this?" He demanded.

Liam shifted his weight. He scratched the back of his neck. "Uh, yeah. I saw some case information out on Mike's desk, and I noticed something peculiar. I figured Mike must already be so busy with all his other work for you, and I didn't want to burden him more, so I thought I'd take care of it myself." He turned towards Mike, his face deceivingly contrite. "I really hope I didn't overstep."

Son of a bitch. "So, you poached my case?"

Liam, to his credit, had really committed to the bit. His eyes went wide, and he took a step back. He shook his head emphatically. "Oh, no, I didn't mean anything by it. I've just been so bored today with all the usual first-week drivel, and it was practically screaming at me to take a look. It was such an easy fix, and I thought you wouldn't mind having a lighter load.

Easy fix, my ass, Mike thought. Only because I've spent the last week untangling a web of red tape that would put Charlotte's to shame.

Before Mike could answer, Harvey beat him to it. "What's your name?"

"Liam Fleming, sir."

"Cut that 'sir' shit right now." He tapped the top folder off of his desk thoughtfully. "This is solid work."

Mike couldn't believe what he was hearing. Not only had Harvey not backed him when he'd quite literally had a case—a case he'd been slaving over for weeks—pilfered right out from beneath his nose, but he'd also praised Liam. Mike had to win them millions for even a "good work, now don't get cocky," and Liam got it with a single piece of paper. Mike's single piece of paper.

Harvey returned to the work in front of him without another word, in his universal sign of dismissal. Mike was still stuck, his eyes bouncing from Liam to Harvey and back again in utter disbelief. He watched as Liam seemed to realize he wouldn't be getting anymore out of the senior partner and turned to make his leave. He paused with his hand on the door.

"Oh my God," he muttered. Mike tracked his gaze to Harvey's vinyl collection. "Is that A Love Supreme?"

Up on the wall, protected by a UV repellent case, was, in fact, a record bearing the same name. Mike could hear the proud smirk in Harvey's voice when he said, "Yeah? What about it?"

"What about it?!" Liam shrieked. "Uh, it's an original 1965 Prestige white-label pressing! Those things have gone at auction for like 30k."

"You really know your stuff. Big jazz fan?"

Liam scoffed. "Um, like, the biggest."

Harvey gave a low chuckle. He jerked his thumb in towards Mike. "Well, maybe you can give Mike here some lessons on real taste. He's more of a nihilistic angst fan."

Mike tried not to shrink under the way Liam and Harvey both laughed at his expense, even as the so-deemed "nihilistic angst" of "Yellow Ledbetter" could be faintly heard from the one earbud still dangling down the side of his face.

Mike had always known Harvey was a bit of a music snob. To be completely honest, he was a snob with just about everything. But Mike afforded him some leeway when it came to music, knowing how dear jazz was to his heart, how it provided him with a connection to his dad in a way nothing else could. He was used to Harvey's offhanded comments, his casual jabs, about Mike's own preferences. He could just laugh it off, brush it away as easily as invisible lint on his shoulder. It was no secret Harvey viewed most of Mike's tastes as lesser, on the sheer principle that he was Harvey Specter.

The teasing about his Converse and hoodies that implanted thorns of doubt beneath Mike's skin. The well-timed barbs about his food preferences that dissimulated their true meanings behind affection. The barely concealed looks of contempt for his beloved game.

Rationally, he knew Harvey never intended to hurt him. He didn't even intend for Mike to notice, he was sure. But reading Harvey came as easily as breathing for Mike, and thus so did the niggling shame for the things he enjoyed.

For the way his interests compared to Harvey's, all suave and elegant.

How Mike couldn't even look the part if he tried.

And truly, he didn't wish to. He liked the things he wore, he liked the music he listened to, the food he preferred, the things he read. He wasn't ashamed of that. No, the shame stemmed wholly from his inability to at least pretend he was worthy to be with Harvey.

But he had known what he was getting into when he'd agreed to enter their little top-secret arrangement. He had known, deep in his heart, it could never last. Eventually, Harvey would find someone much better suited for him, someone who liked the same things as he and looked the part to boot. Someone who wasn't all lanky limbs and clean lines, no defined muscles or discernably extraordinary features. Eventually, there would come a day where the benefits of his mind were outweighed by the pitfalls of everything else.

That didn't stop him from clinging to every soft touch Harvey offered, every reverent word that soothed the ache of wounds that never quite healed, of self-doubts that could never be entirely hidden.

He would give every bit of himself for those scraps. He would give every bit of his light just so Harvey could shine brighter.

He was, most of all, ashamed of that admission.

So, he put on his mask. He smiled and bid Liam goodbye. He tried to ignore the way both Liam and Harvey exuded light.

He couldn't, however, ignore the brightness being lost to the blackhole of his own heart.

"That new kid? Liam? He's something else."

Mike barely glanced up from where he was curled into the corner of Harvey's couch, a battered copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray spread across his raised knees. He made a noncommittal noise.

"He just showed up today?" Harvey collapsed next to him. He took a sip from his open beer bottle.

"Mhm. Pretty much," Mike muttered, never taking his eyes off the page. He despised the way the long-ago memorized words shifted and swam.

Harvey tapped the bottom of his bottle against Mike's leg. "Hey, you okay?"

Mike sighed and finally pulled his eyes away to meet Harvey's own. "Harvey, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know. You just seem…subdued. Usually, I'd be listening to a half hour rant about the gay subtext of Dorian and Basil."

"Maybe I'm just not much in the ranting mood."

"Well, then what are you in the mood for?" A predatory grin spread across Harvey's face. He set his beer on the coffee table and wrapped his hand around Mike's ankle, slowly moving it up his leg. He stroked his fingers over his inner thigh, and Mike shuddered even as he determinedly kept his eyes trained on his book and fought a soft smile. He refused to provide Harvey with the satisfaction of knowing just how he sent his heart racing with only the tips of his fingers.

Harvey's fingers ghosted over the sensitive heat where his leg met his body, two of them slipping beneath the waist of his sweatpants and smoothing over the goosebumps there. He leaned in until his body was hovering over Mike's, pressing him back into the throw pillow, his lips brushing his ear.

"Really," Harvey whispered. "You don't want to tell me all about how Lord Henry's the real villain?"

Mike's breath caught in his throat. The book began to slip from his grip, and he let it fall unceremoniously to the floor, not even wincing. Harvey's eyes twinkled with a dark mirth when he pulled back to get a good look at Mike. His free hand twisted in the soft hair at the base of Mike's head.

His warmth was everywhere. Even shrouded in the dim lamplight, Harvey shone like an angel.

He nipped softly at Mike's bottom lip, his fingers still stroking, teasing, just beneath the elastic waistband. Mike gasped into Harvey's open mouth.

Maybe an incubus was more like it.

Any thoughts of Liam were lost in the impossible depths of Harvey's embrace, in the comfort and heat of his total devotion. It was difficult to find any shame in that moment.

It was so easy to feed off the warmth, to let it fill him up, to drown in it and never come up for air.

"I honestly can't understand what all these idiots see in him," Jimmy whispered furiously over the coffee machine two weeks later. Two weeks, and the entire firm had transformed into a Liam Fleming fan club.

There was always a perpetual crowd gathered around Liam's desk where the king in question hosted his court. It took no less than seven days, seven days, for Louis to award him his own office, touting some pretense of their "best associate not being able to work beneath such overwhelming conditions." Jessica herself had even appeared in the bullpen amidst a flurry of hushed whispers and stolen glances, all to, quite pointedly, ask Liam how he was settling in.

It was sickening. Downright sickening, the way everyone had blindly fallen for his smooth charm and guileful deference.

Jimmy and Harold seemed to be the only two who hadn't fallen for the Liam-spell. Them, and Donna, who had immediately given Liam a once over and a subsequent witty snub to his attempts at flattery.

Her desk was the only one Liam had never returned to.

"I mean, sure he's a piece of eye candy and all that, but so was the Phantom until the mask came off."

Mike huffed a quiet exhale that could almost pass for a laugh. He methodically stirred his creamer into the shitty cup of day-old drip coffee. "The closest thing Mr. Perfect has to a disfigurement is that little scar on his lip, and something tells me it's not exactly wounding his appeal."

"I was more referring to the whole serial killer thing, but sure. Disfigurement. I overheard him telling his loyal subjects he got it from a boxing match for a children's hospital fundraiser. Go figure."

Yeah, go figure. Mike could still hear the way Harvey had come home two nights ago, practically crowing with delight after learning Liam the jazz extraordinaire was also a boxing enthusiast.

"I told him we should get in the ring sometime. See if I could give him a matching set of scars."

It was a good thing Tuesdays were D&D night, because if Mike had to sit home alone with nothing but his thoughts and the dark for company while Harvey and Liam were together, sweating all over each other, he was certain he would go insane.

Mike took a sip of his coffee and peered at Jimmy over the brim. He grimaced when the tarry grounds coated his tongue. "Well, if a fundraising manager turns up dead in the near future, I'll call Dateline."

"Uh, hey guys. What're you up to?" Harold poked his head through the open door.

Jimmy waved his half-empty cup vaguely towards the bullpen. "Enjoying the finest sludge New York has to offer and commiserating about Muhammad Ali out there."

"Or a possible serial killer. Still up in the air," Mike added.

"Or a possible serial killer," Jimmy agreed.

Harold's eyes grew impossibly wide. "Liam?" He hissed.

Jimmy went to the sink, dumped out the rest of his beverage, and rinsed the cup. "It's a joke Harold. Ever seen The Phantom of the Opera?"

Harold shook his head. "Never seen it, but we read some bastardized version in my high school French class." He quickly cleared his throat. "Mike, Harvey's in the bullpen."

"What? Harold, you should have led with that!"

"I'm sorry! I was a bit more worried about the serial killer accusations!"

"Oh my God," Mike heard Jimmy mutter as he pushed past both of them, coffee forgotten on the counter. Harvey was there, only he wasn't waiting around Mike's desk like he usually did, with one arm slung over the divider and the other toying with the dozens of sticky notes Mike had plastered around his monitor. Instead, he was already leaving, in his grip was a file Mike had just finished.

He jogged, breathless, to his side. "Hey, I was just about to bring that to you. You didn't need to come all the way down here."

Mike waited, a tiny, humiliating sliver of himself hoping Harvey would say something like "I wanted to see you." But no, instead, he shrugged.

"Liam says he's got a ton of experience with estate transfers. I want him to take a look."

Mike's brain stuttered to a halt, and it was only from momentum alone that his feet didn't do the same. "What?" He sputtered incredulously.

Harvey paused in the middle of the hall towards his office and spun to where Mike had stopped short behind him. "Problem?"

Problem?

"Harvey, I've been working on that all morning. I've reviewed it twice now."

"Exactly. You've reviewed it twice. Never hurts to get a fresh pair of eyes on something."

Mike huffed. "You've never had someone double-check my work before."

"Mike," Harvey snapped, a cold edge creeping into his voice. He scowled. "This isn't a thing. Liam offered, and I agreed it was a good idea for someone with more experience to look it over. Besides, Liam needs the practice reviewing cases for us. This estate's worth a quarter of a billion dollars. And you lost in goddamn housing court."

Someone with more experience. Someone more like Harvey.

Since the day Liam had waltzed into the firm, he'd managed to worm his way into every case that crossed Mike's desk and took credit for half of them, swooping in at the buzzer to make the game-winning play after hours of tireless work he hadn't contributed to. However, this was the first time Harvey had ever been complicit to the case filching. Hell, this was the first time Harvey had ever second-guessed Mike when it came to the quality of his work.

And that hurt worse than anything Harvey could say in the moment.

Mike could have fought back. He could have stood his ground and refused to bow under the weight of Harvey's grandiosity. He could have snapped back in defense to the obvious jab he could never quite seem to live down, no matter how many cases he closed or millions he won.

Stupid, idiotic Mike.

Instead, he kept his mouth shut. He had known Harvey long enough to realize when something was a Sisyphean argument. The harder he pushed, the greater the weight of Harvey's self-preserving defense would grow and soon enough Mike would find himself right back at the bottom of the mountain.

If he wanted to leave whatever this thing was with Liam at work, he had to know when to choose his battles, lest it carry into their personal lives.

Mike was replaceable, that he knew. But that didn't mean he would ever stop getting back up day after day, pushing that boulder up the hill like the living definition of insanity. He would keep his mouth shut and smother whatever defense of his own threatened to rise.

So, in the end, Mike pursed his lips and nodded mutely. Seemingly satisfied, Harvey clapped him roughly on the shoulder and headed towards his office without another word.

Just ahead, Mike caught a glimpse of Donna at her desk, appearing rather stricken. She, too, had her lips pursed. The skin around her eyes crinkled like she was deep in thought, and for a fleeting moment, Mike thought she was going to say something. Instead, she simply offered him a pitying look and hastily returned to her work.

Mike stood there in the middle of the hall for a long moment. His feet were frozen to the spot until the quiet clearing of a throat drew him from his stupor. He whirled around and marched back towards the bullpen, his eyes welling with barely contained tears. He choked them down around the massive lump in his throat. His entire body burned with humiliation at just how many people had witnessed Harvey stripping him down to an armature of incompetency. He didn't want to see any of the looks of disgust on their faces, but he forced himself to breathe. In four, hold four, out four. Over and over again until the papers littering his desk no longer blurred into a monochromatic mass. Until his hands stopped shaking. Until his head was clear enough to type his own name.

One last breath, and he silently reached for another file he knew would no longer truly be his in the end.

The following evening, Mike returned from D&D to an empty loft.

He usually went to Harvey's after a session, since they generally hosted at Jimmy's place, and it was already in Manhattan. Considering it was often after midnight when he returned, it wasn't unusual for his secret lover/affair/sort-of boyfriend to already be asleep.

It was, however, highly unusual for Harvey to be gone completely.

He noticed the emptiness the moment he stepped through the door. The penthouse was completely dark aside from the lights of the City That Never Sleeps reflecting a Rorschach of shapes off the glass walls and across the polished floorboards. It was also eerily quiet with no soft whirring of the ceiling fan—the one Harvey couldn't sleep without—or low hum of the building's furnace.

Mike shivered as goosebumps prickled across his skin. He sighed heavily, toed off his shoes next to the door, and strode across the room to the thermostat in the kitchen and bumped the heat up until it kicked on. He sighed heavily and made his way to the living room where he switched one of the lamps on and dropped his bag unceremoniously on the couch.

He inclined his neck towards the bedroom. Sure enough, the door was wide open, the bed still made and uninhabited.

Mike tried to quell the pang of worry that settled over him as he pulled his phone from his bag. They all went out of their way to silence their phones during a session. The whole point of playing was to escape from the usual drivel of their day-to-day, if only for a little while. If there truly were an emergency, people knew where to find them.

Still, relief washed over him when he caught sight of Harvey's name on his home screen, only to be immediately doused in something much uglier.

Hey, went for drinks after boxing. Not feeling too good to drive, so I'm going to stay at Liam's. -H

The sick feeling he'd managed to snuff out amidst a few fantastical hours of creativity, slammed back into him with vengeance. It gripped his lungs, squeezing until it became difficult to exhale. His stomach swirled uneasily. He wiped his palms against his jeans and cringed at the wetness left behind.

Because Harvey never got drunk on a work night, not without a good reason. And when he did, it was always at home where he could lose himself in the endless flow of amber misery. He would never be so out of himself at a public bar for fear of someone seeing. Of someone accusing him of being human.

Which meant they had gone back to Liam's house to drink. Perfect, infallible Liam who loved jazz and boxing and apparently now expensive liquor, as well. They were probably on his couch right now, sipping Macallan 18 from crystal glasses just like Harvey's, talking about only God knows what. Sports, or cars, or music, or how Mike could never possibly talk about those things in the same way as Liam.

Maybe they were laughing again, like they had that first meeting in the office, over some shared joke Mike wasn't privy to. Maybe they were laughing about Mike.

Poor, desperate Mike's off playing his little fantasy game while we kick the shit out of each other and laugh it off over a glass of $300 whiskey.

Mike shook his head, hard, trying to clear the images from his mind. He powered off his phone and threw it blindly into the couch cushions as he collapsed backwards. He was being ridiculous. He was certain Harvey never found himself lost in a spiral of self-doubt every time he went to D&D, to grab a drink with Harold and Jimmy, to catch a movie with Jenny, to go to a book signing with Benjamin.

Then again, Harvey had assuredness on his side. Assuredness that Mike couldn't get in anyone else's pants even if he wanted to.

Which he didn't. Shame in his own pitiful clinginess bubbled, acrid, in his stomach.

Harvey was entitled to hang out with other people, just as Mike was. God, he sounded like a jealous mistress.

It just had to be Liam goddamn Fleming.

It became a pattern. Harvey would go out with Liam, text with some lame excuse of too much to drink or traffic's a bitch and not come home that night.

Mike would curl up, alone, under the cold covers. He almost wished he was in his own studio. At least there, loneliness already pervaded every inch of the space. There would be no fresh ache of emptiness to greet him in the chill of an empty bed.

He almost went home.

He never did.

More nights than not, Harvey was still there. He still cooked for them. Still peppered Mike with kisses, showered him with an affection he was only afforded away from prying eyes. He still made love to Mike like he was something precious to hold on to.

About a month into what he'd deemed as the Liam Endeavour, he saw Harvey in his office, with only Liam for company, on the couch, files spread everywhere, slouched like he owned the place. Like he owned Mike's place.

He ignored the pained look on Donna's face as he turned on his heel and dutifully marched back to his desk where Jimmy was waiting with a smile, a fresh cup of liquid agony, and an arsenal of material to rag on their new Golden Boy. It was nice, knowing he still had friends even as Liam was stealing the love of his life from beneath his nose.

As much as it ailed his heart, it was no challenge for him to make that admission. Harvey was the love of his life, even if the feelings weren't reciprocated. He was okay to languish in the warmth of Harvey's personality like a little cat in a sun puddle, soaking up every ray he was offered. He was okay to be whatever Harvey needed him to, for as long as he was needed.

Eventually, decades down the road, Mike would forget what it felt like to be loved by Harvey Specter, in whatever capacity that was. Because he might have had a photographic memory, but it wasn't actually photographic. Just like the memories of his parents, those of his time with Harvey would fade as well. The pain would probably always linger, but as long as Harvey was happy, he would be, too.

He would hold on for as long as he could, but even Sisyphus had to grow tired at some point.