One Step More
By carnifax (originally posted to tumblr)
Suits
Harvey/Mike
Rated T
Angst | General
Mike lifts his foot a bit higher, stretches it out a few inches over the ledge.
Pre-Pearson Hardman. Based off a gif on tumblr.
Mike has been standing here for ten minutes now, standing on the edge, staring down at the city, thinking, always thinking. Even at this height and this close to the edge (and not to mention the erratic reel of alcohol), his head is still reeling with names and numbers and the expressions of people he knew, or maybe didn't know. All the stories say that right before you die, your past flashes before your eyes — but that's all his head ever does: he remember things he's seen and things he means to forget.
He tries to forget the car accident.
He tries to forget the day he realized Trevor had hit Jenny, actually hit her, so bad that the makeup she tried to smear on (it looked heavily-painted, too) couldn't hide it. He tries to forget the next time, too, and the time after that, and all the moments in between when he was too much of a coward to make it stop.
He tries to forget the look on the dean's face yesterday when he personally shook Mike's hand, made a comment about how disappointed he was that 'such a bright young mind could come to ruin so quickly,' and told him that he expected Mike out of the dorms within 48 hours, or campus security would become involved.
He tries not to think about the look on his grandmother's face when he tells her that he got kicked out, that he has no future, that he had lost the only thing he had ever wanted.
Because he hasn't told her yet — Fuck, he hasn't even told Trevor. Not that the ass would be sober enough to do anything but laugh, but still. Mike might've told the bartender last night, or this afternoon, or unsuspecting patrons, but they didn't give a shit.
No one gives a shit.
That, he smiled, picking up his foot off the edge, that is why he's up here. He spreads out his arms, stares up at the sky. That is why no one will notice if he's gone. In this entire damn city, lit up beneath him, pulsing with life, there is not a single soul who needs him. Not one.
Mike lifts his foot a bit higher, stretches it out a few inches over the ledge. All it would take is one gust of wind, one tiny fucking breath of city air, to topple him.
But up here, it's silent. Even the noise from the city doesn't reach. He sees the sirens a few streets over, and a train on the outskirts, and there's a busy street directly below, but he hears nothing. He doesn't even know where he is, to be honest — the building looked tall and the security guards weren't around to stop him from using the elevators — but the air here is quiet. Peaceful. Mourning.
He waits, breathing, content. The wind doesn't come.
Instead, there are two arms around his chest, yanking him back off the ledge. Mike pitches back, landing on a body, which grunts under him and almost immediately shoves him off.
Someone's yelling at him, swearing, shaking him, but Mike is still. Everything is slowed. Without the city lights, it's dark on the balcony, and even though he can see the moon hanging above him, he's sure it's getting darker. The world tunnels to black, taking the moon with it, and suddenly there are hands on his face that smell like ink and paper and the sweet burn of musk. Someone slaps him — he hears it, doesn't feel a thing — and a swell of nausea builds low in his chest as the voice keeps going. He inhales — ink and paper — and exhales, choking — bile and whiskey — and just before the black takes him, he gets a glimpse of the man above him.
Dark eyes, dark hair, dark suit; he always knew this is the way Death would look. It's just that he never figured Death would be this handsome.