The Art of Fainting

It really wasn't Mike's fault that the tables at El Vaso Lleno were so comfortable, or made such good pillows, especially after a few margaritas. And the margaritas, along with the power to send him into a blissful state of intoxication, had the fortunate ability to turn Mike's mouth blue, which had amused Rachel to no end.

Now Rachel was dancing a few yards away, giggling with pretty blonde, another paralegal from a different floor. Mike watched them, floating happily in his buzz, with his head in his arms on the table. Rachel's laugh was infectious—her real laugh, when her head tilted back and she let out a peal of genuinely charmed laughter. And her friend was charming too, all long legs and red hair, like a younger—and much less scary—Donna. She had asked him to dance but Mike was perfectly content where he was, just watching.

Everyone was fun to watch, at these firm celebrations. At first they had seemed like a bad excuse to get drunk on company money, but even Jessica was letting loose, doing shots with Harvey at the far corner of the bar.

From what Mike had heard, Jessica was a girl who could hold her liquor, and as far as Mike could see, she was matching Harvey shot-for-shot on what appeared to be Jose. But if Mike knew Harvey—and Mike liked to think he did—he knew Harvey would be going easy on her. Harvey would've done so anyway, but because this was a company party, Harvey was probably taking it easy on his own liver, lest he become the joke of the firm the next Monday.

The chivalry was endearing, though, Mike could say that much. He smiled into his arms, eyes glued on the pair of them as Harvey gulped down another shot, the muscles in his throat visibly moving when he swallowed. His jaw clenched with the afterburn, and then he laughed. Mike couldn't hear it over the sound of the bar, but his mind supplied the sound anyway: a throaty, low laugh, familiar but not typical. It was one of Harvey's rarest laughs—not that Mike studied them, or catalogued them in his spare time—and Harvey usually only laughed that freely when in private with Donna or Jessica.

Mike closed his eyes, sighing. When he was drunk like this, it didn't feel stupid to wish that Harvey would just laugh with him like that, just once, eventually.

Mike must have fallen asleep while imagining the way Harvey's voice rumbled in his chest when he chuckled, because suddenly there was a hand running through his hair, gently tugging on it, pulling Mike back into reality.

He blinked his eyes open, drowsy and still floating on alcohol, and grinned broadly upon seeing Harvey. "Hey," he said, lifting his head.

It was clear time had passed, from the difference in intoxication levels shown by the firm's workers. Rachel and her friend were laughing raucously from the bar, flirting with the bartenders, one of which was female. Jessica was gone, probably having made an elegant surrender to Harvey before leaving. Harold was nearly falling off his barstool across the room, sipping a cosmo, staring openly and hungrily at Gregory. Louis was surrounded by a few of the other associates, gesturing emphatically as he told them a likely-fictitious story about a glory case.

And Harvey—Harvey was still running his fingers through Mike's hair, and it make Mike's hazy mind snap back into place.

Harvey clearly enjoyed the texture of Mike's hair, given the way he kept petting it, letting it slip through his fingers. And Mike was more than happy to let him continue; with Harvey's gaze on Mike's hair, Mike's eyes were free to stare at Harvey himself, in a sort of drunken awe.

If it were possible, Harvey looked more stunning the closer Mike got to him. Mike could see his dimples and the creases at the corners of his eyes. Harvey's irises looked almost black in the barlight, and his eyelashes threw long shadows down his cheeks.

After what seemed like hours, Harvey's eyes met Mike's, and the smile he gave Mike was so open that it threw Mike off-guard for a second.

"You're drunk," was all Mike could think to say.

Harvey laughed, the noise coming from deep in his chest, and tightened his fist in Mike's hair. He pulled on it, gently enough that it didn't hurt, but firmly enough that Mike tilted his head back, his face turning up toward Harvey's.

Mike couldn't help but glance at Harvey's lips. They were right there, so close. Mike could feel Harvey's breath on his cheek.

"I'm drunk?" Harvey chuckled, and let go of his hair. "You're drunk. Much more drunk."

"You're petting me," Mike pointed out.

"You're a puppy." Harvey raised his eyebrows and took Mike's tie between two fingers, tugging on it. "C'mon, pup. You've had enough fun for the night."

Mike obligingly got out of the booth, content to just obey and not ask questions. Harvey led him outside, still holding his tie, and quickly hailed a cab. He slid into the backseat first, yanking Mike in when the associate hesitated on the sidewalk.

"Shouldn't I have gotten a different cab?" Mike asked as soon as Harvey rattled off his address to the cabbie. "Since I live, um, somewhere else?"

"Oh, puppy, puppy, puppy," Harvey sing-songed. He chuckled, tugging twice on Mike's tie before he let it go. "You're my responsibility."

"I can get to my own apartment," Mike argued, his indignant tone lost to the slurred syllables. "I'm not a puppy."

"Maybe you're a kitten, then," Harvey shrugged. "But either way, you're staying in the guest bedroom at my place."

Mike let out a hum and shook his head, too hazy to fight him. He leaned his shoulder against Harvey's. "M'not a kitten. Or a puppy."

The cabbie caught Mike's gaze in the rearview mirror, giving him a judgmental look.

"What?" Mike asked too loudly, and raised his hands. "I'm not a puppy!"

The rest of the ride was mostly silent, because Harvey had dissolved into inaudible-but-hysterical laughter and couldn't seem to calm down until they were out of the cab and through the doors or Harvey's building, Harvey—of course—pulling Mike behind him by the tie. Mike was grinning, though, the sound of Harvey's muffled laughter replaying in his head.

The guard at the security desk didn't even bat an eyelash at the pair. He just nodded to Harvey, who gave him a solemn nod and a low, "Steven."

Mike saluted the guard as he passed. "Steven," he said, mimicking Harvey.

The man smirked at that. "A friend, Specter?"

"He wishes," Harvey grinned back. "Just a puppy."

"Not a puppy!" But Harvey had already tugged him through the elevator doors. "I'm not a puppy, Steven!" Mike shouted as the doors closed.

Harvey clapped a hand over his mouth, frowning, but there was no severity to it. "You'll wake people up, Ross."

Mike narrowed his eyes. As soon as Harvey lifted his hand, Mike hissed, "Not. A. Puppy." Then he blinked. "But I am hungry."

The inside of Harvey's apartment was just as gorgeous as Mike had expected, and it took him a minute to adjust to the lavish décor. He was afraid to touch anything, let alone walk anywhere. He was good at breaking things. He remembered Harvey saying something like that before.

But Harvey was toeing his shoes off; Mike followed suit, and then resumed looking around.

"Clothes," Harvey muttered before pulling Mike into the side hall and leading him up the steps.

The room Harvey went into was his bedroom, Mike realized. That made him stop short. Even with alcohol in his blood, he felt like he was encroaching upon Harvey's life. Harvey's bed was still unmade from when he'd crawled out of it this morning; that detail alone made Mike feel out-of-place, like he was seeing bits of Harvey that the man had never meant for him to see. Harvey had always tried to be Super Harvey, who didn't ever seem to need sleep or rest or water or got depressed or—

A bundle of clothes hit him in the face. Mike caught them and looked at Harvey.

"Those will work for tonight," Harvey told him, and nodded past him into the hallway. "Third door on the right's a bathroom. And the kitchen's downstairs, if you're starving."

Ten minutes later, Harvey was still in his bedroom with the door mostly shut, staring at himself in the mirror, shaking his head at his reflection.

Mike was in his apartment.

Mike was in his apartment.

Mike was in his apartment.

And it wasn't so strange, Harvey realized, letting out a tense breath. It was actually quite entertaining. And whatever thoughts Harvey was having about the implications of this, Mike likely was just thinking of it all as a slumber party or something, oblivious as usual, and blissfully so.

Harvey nodded at his reflection, and went to find Mike. But Mike wasn't in the kitchen, like Harvey assumed he would be. Mike hadn't been upstairs; Harvey would've heard him rattling about.

"Mike?" Harvey called, suddenly sober. Maybe Mike was worse off than he'd thought. Maybe he'd fainted again—Mike had passed out on the table at the bar—

A soft crunching came from somewhere, breaking up Harvey's thoughts.

"Mike?" he called again, following the sound of it around the corner.

"You really do have a glass elevator," Mike's voice echoed, from—not surprisingly—inside the elevator.

Harvey came closer and saw him then, sitting crosslegged on the floor of the elevator, clad in Harvey's sweatpants and an old ELO shirt, munching on a bowl of cereal. His free hand was on the glass floor, fingers splayed wide, as if he were trying to reach through it and touch the city below.

"Having fun?" Harvey stepped in beside him and pressed the Door Close button. He used the doors as a backrest, sinking down next to Mike, stretching his legs out across the floor.

Mike pivoted to sit facing the same way. He put his cereal aside and pulled his knees to his chest, his arms crossing over the top of them. He sighed, audibly, but in contentment; and Harvey let out a breath, too, relaxing a little more.

"If I lived here," Mike told him, voice quiet, "I think I'd sit here all night and just stare at the city."

"You'd get tired of it," Harvey said.

"No," Mike said. "Never."

And Harvey believed him, with the way Mike was staring out the windows, in a peaceful sort of trance.

The elevator lights dimmed with inactivity, fading to black. Like this, the glass had no reflections; it seemed like they could actually reach out of the elevator. Just them, and the city.

Harvey felt Mike tense beside him, and glanced over in time to see Mike staring down through the seemingly-missing floor.

"You won't fall through," Harvey promised, amusement clear in his tone.

Mike didn't answer for a long time. He looked at Harvey, an odd expression across his features. "It wouldn't matter if I did," he said, more of a sigh than spoken words.

"Why not?" Harvey wasn't concerned; Mike didn't look sad, just thoughtful. The elevator did that to Harvey sometimes, too.

"Because"—Mike smiled softly—"I'd fall with my two favorite things with me."

Harvey cocked his head to one side. "And what two things are these, exactly?"

"New York City," Mike said. And then he stopped, holding Harvey's gaze but saying nothing. Harvey looked back, curious, almost anxious, his pulse speeding up just a little.

Mike huffed out a sigh and dropped his head onto Harvey's shoulder. "And cereal," he said finally. "I love cereal."

"Cereal," Harvey echoed, smirking. He felt Mike nodding against his shoulder.

"Mmhmm." A pause; and then, words slow and drowsy, "Why are you wearing all black, Harvey?" He lifted his head a little, then set it against Harvey's shoulder again. "Are you evil?"

"Why are you wearing my clothes?" Harvey countered. "Are you a puppy?"

Mike's breathing was slowing now, too. He hummed in response; it took him another few seconds to manage words. "I think I might be." Another long pause. "I'm tired."

Harvey smiled, fully aware of the affection in it. "C'mon, let's get you up, then." He pressed the elevator's second floor button, wincing at the light that flickered on. Mike whined and buried his face deeper into Harvey's shirt.

"Up, up," Harvey coaxed him when the elevator started moving. "C'mon, Mike." But the associate seemed incapable of moving. So Harvey rolled his eyes—though honestly, he didn't mind; far from it—and scooped Mike up, easily lifting him into his arms. Mike's eyes fluttered open, but he didn't protest.

"How romantic," Mike muttered as the elevator doors pinged open. "Are you going to carry me to your bedroom, Romeo?"

Harvey smirked, trying to dismiss the images his mind had just created. "Not my bedchambers, sorry."

"I'm not the right Juliet?" Mike laughed, a soft, breathy laugh that hit Harvey's neck and made him shiver.

"You're a little too much of a hot mess to be anyone's Juliet tonight," Harvey managed. He toed open the door to the guest bedroom and flicked the lightswitch with his elbow, then set Mike on the bed.

"I'm a hot mess," Mike echoed dully.

Harvey pulled the covers over him, wondering if Mike would even remember any of this in the morning. He wasn't drunk enough to black out, but he seemed practically asleep already. Harvey dearly hoped that Mike would forget; but some part of him wanted Mike to know what had happened, because if Mike forgot, it would be all too easy for Harvey himself to pretend it never happened.

"Harvey," Mike said, sharply enough to make Harvey stop short. Mike rolled onto his side, staring blearily at him, obviously fighting to stay conscious. "If I'm a hot mess, can I at least be your hot mess?"

Harvey felt a twinge in his chest; he felt warmer, more at peace, than he could attribute to the alcohol, and he wasn't naïve enough to deny the reason for it.

"Mike," he said, "haven't you noticed?" He flicked off the light. "You already are."

— — — — — — — — — —

Mike groaned into consciousness, throwing an arm over his eyes. There was too much light filtering in through his eyelids, and it was strangely coming from the opposite direction it normally did, like his window had migrated.

It took him another minute to remember that he was in Harvey's apartment, and instantly he shot upright, eyes flying open. His head ached with a hangover but what hurt even more was the memory of what had happened—god, he was an embarrassment to mankind.

He had yelled a security guard, buried his face in Harvey's shoulder, asked if Harvey was bringing him to his 'bedchambers,' and if his memory served, he had also spent a large portion of the night staring into Harvey's eyes.

But Harvey had put up with it, Mike realized. He had catered to it, even. Hell, Harvey had carried him to bed. If Mike had anything to be embarrassed about, at least he could shoulder some of the humiliation off on Harvey, who had tolerated his shenanigans.

It took Mike a few minutes to will himself out of bed. He glanced in the long mirror on the bedroom wall, raking his hand through his hair; his appearance was beyond helping. So he just sighed and went downstairs.

Harvey was in the kitchen with his back turned, very obviously cooking from the smell and the sound of sizzling. Mike padded closer; Harvey had showered, too, if the spicy scent of bodywash was any indication. And he had changed, which Mike didn't mind at all. The white t-shirt and plaid pajama pants clung to Harvey in all the right places, making Mike wonder if it was all the fancy tailoring that made Harvey's suits look elegant, or if it was really just the impeccable shape the man kept himself in.

Mike let himself stare at Harvey's ass for a few seconds before he perched on one of the stools at the breakfast counter and said, "I still can't believe you have a glass elevator."

Harvey tensed in surprise and glanced over his shoulder, giving Mike a once-over before he turned back to the stove. "You look like you're still drunk."

Mike smiled, resting his elbows on the counter. "I wish. Then maybe I wouldn't have a headache."

"To your left."

"What?" Mike looked to his left, where on the end of the counter sat a bottle of pain relievers and a tall glass of what looked and fizzed like ginger ale. "You really are a boy scout, aren't you?"

"I'm not sure our scoutmasters ever taught us how to cure hangovers," Harvey said. He pulled two plates out of the cupboard and scooped food onto each one while Mike gulped back a few aspirin. "Hungry?"

"Not really." But as soon as Harvey pushed a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, bacon and sliced banana towards him, Mike's stomach growled loudly.

Harvey laughed and handed him a fork, pulling up his own stool across the counter from Mike.

"Why aren't you hungover?" Mike asked through a mouthful of eggs.

"Because I can hold my liquor." Harvey smirked. "You smell like stale-tequila cologne."

Mike's head jerked up. Of course he smelled like last night, especially since in comparison Harvey had just stepped out of the shower. He didn't think he smelled or looked too offensive, but apparently he was wrong.

Mike put his fork down and pushed away from the counter, getting down from his stool. "I can, uh, go change—"

"Mike, I was kidding," Harvey said quickly. Mike stopped. "I mean, you do smell like a bar," he amended, "but it's fine. It's expected."

Mike looked unconvinced.

"Will you just sit down?" Harvey shook his head. "There aren't any clients here, and I don't really give a damn about your appearance."

"You always do at the office," Mike muttered.

"Sit," Harvey ordered.

Hesitating for a second longer, Mike obliged and climbed back up on the stool.

"Good boy."

Mike shot him a glare, but there was no venom in it. "Did I really yell at that security guard?" he asked after a minute.

Harvey's laugh should've made Mike feel more humiliated, but it just made him smile back. "Steven asked me about you this morning," Harvey said, taking a sip of his coffee. "He asked why I don't bring friends around more often, if they're all as hilarious as you were."

Mike chuckled, and then realized something. "Did you go somewhere?" He looked at his wrist and remembered he'd taken off his watch. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Almost eleven," Harvey answered, shrugging. "I didn't really have much in my fridge, so I went out."

The way Harvey said that was nonchalant, but it made Mike feel like someone had knocked the wind out of him. Harvey had gone to get food for him, specifically for them to have breakfast—to have breakfast together. A normal grocery run could've waited until Mike left. And there was no reason that Mike had to eat at Harvey's apartment; Harvey could've just as easily kicked him out unfed.

Mike stared at his plate. Harvey had done this for him.

He didn't quite know how to feel about that. Happy, of course. But it was complicated. And confusing.

"Wait, did you say eleven?" Mike asked, jolting in his seat. "Shit—"

Harvey's brow furrowed. "You have somewhere to be? It's a Saturday—"

"No, I know, I just—" He sighed, shoveling one last forkful of eggs into his mouth. "I'm supposed to meet Jenny somewhere at noon."

An odd expression worked through Harvey's features, but it was gone in an instant. "Oh?" Harvey said, his lips turning up in a wry smile.

"Shit, shit," Mike muttered, hopping off his stool. "Sorry!" he called over his shoulder, racing upstairs.

He had never changed so fast in his life. His clothes were a little wrinkled but passable—and it was a Saturday morning anyway, all sorts of hungover-looking people were probably crawling about New York—and anyway, they were all he had. For a brief second he considered giving an outfit of his to Harvey, to keep in this apartment, just in case Mike needed it, but the sane part of his brain told him only couples did that.

Mike slipped on his watch as he rushed back downstairs, nearly tripping over himself in the process. Harvey was still sitting at the counter, reading a magazine as he finished his breakfast. He looked up when he heard Mike approach.

"If you're going to lunch with your girlfriend, you might want to shower first," Harvey said, eyeing him up and down. There was a bitter note to his voice that Mike didn't quite understand.

"She's not my girlfriend," Mike said, grabbing the toast off of his plate. "I'm helping her pick out an apartment today."

"Mmhm." He sounded dubious.

"She's not my girlfriend," Mike said more firmly.

Harvey just stared at him.

"Look, whatever," Mike sighed, starting toward the door. "Thanks for breakfast, and—y'know—everything. I'll call you later. I think I left my cereal in the elevator, just so you know."

"I think you left some of your dignity in there, too," Harvey muttered, staring hard at his magazine.

Mike rolled his eyes and left.

It was only when he finally got to his own apartment that he realized two things simultaneously. One, he'd forgotten his best tie at Harvey's place. And two—which he realized with a flood of mortification—he had actually told Harvey, I'll call you later, like he was some one-night-stand running off on Harvey before breakfast was even over.

Mike collapsed on his couch, ignoring the call of the shower for a minute.

He didn't know how the hell it had happened, but the memory of the entire time at Harvey's felt intense and unexpected, almost personal. And Mike knew he had ruined it, somehow, whatever it was. He had the distinct feeling that things would've gone very differently if he hadn't mentioned Jenny; but he had, and then he'd left, and now it seemed like Harvey was angry with him.

Mike let out a deep sigh.

"Shit."