Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of Suits. No copyright infringement is intended.
To all that reviewed my first Suits story, a thousand thank yous. To those that review this, a thousand and more.
He hates dress shoes. They are impossible to run in, all slick on the bottom, and every time he slaps his foot down on the ground, it always feels worse than running barefoot. Plus they really pinch his toes and if he got even a little smudge on the shiny black surface, his mom—
No, what he really hates are dress clothes. Sure, dress shoes are annoying to wear, but dress clothes are uncomfortable and itchy. Wearing a jacket on top of his long sleeved shirt makes him way too hot; ties always feel like they are choking him. He can't understand why grownup men seemed to like them so much. He remembers watching his dad every morning—
Okay, no, forget dress shoes and dress clothes. What he really hates are casseroles. And people. And sleeping in a bed that isn't his. And his Gram not knowing how he likes his eggs in the morning or that he always reads a chapter in his book before going to bed because it's the only way he can fall asleep or—
"Dude, what are you doing under there?" Trevor ducks his head under the wooden desk and squints at him, face scrunching up all funny like he thinks Mike might be the weirdest thing on the planet because he's hiding in the dark nook under his grandfather's old desk.
He doesn't answer because it's a stupid question, like "How are you doing, sweetheart?" or "Is there anything I can do?" or "Poor thing. And there is no one else to help out?" Adults are such idiots sometimes and his best friend is about two seconds away from being shelved under the same category.
"Okay, so still not talking much, huh? That's cool. You never knew when to shut up anyway. It's kind of nice. Move over." Trevor shoves his way under the desk before Mike can shift out of the way. It's a tight fit with just him under here; with his friend smashed up against his side, it's downright uncomfortable. Mike squirms a little and digs his casted elbow into Trevor's side, showing his displeasure at being interrupted.
"Ugh, dude. Friggin' stop. Geez." Trevor shifts over a little, giving Mike as much room as possible. The desk shudders, rattling the contents of the drawers and scattering a couple of papers that were precariously balanced on the top. He stretches his legs out from under the desk, wiggling his feet back and forth like windshield wipers. "So. . ."
Mike doesn't lift his head from his knees, just wraps his arms tighter around his shins, curling into the smallest, tightest ball he can manage and tries to ignore the way Trevor is sitting pressed up against him, all casual, like it's just another day of hanging out. He doesn't want to be comforted, doesn't want to be told that it's okay to cry or any of the other ridiculous platitudes he has heard in the past few days. He just wants to sit here and not think about anything other than the dull ache in his arm and the way the house creaks in unfamiliar patterns around him and the way his life is made up of a million things he hates right now.
And he certainly doesn't want to talk about any of it.
So they don't. Trevor hums softly under his breath ever so often, amusing himself by tracing the patterns of the wood above them, pointing out the odd shapes in the stains and knots. When he grows bored with that, he rambles. Mike thinks Trevor could probably win awards for his ability to talk on and on (as if he had any right to say that Mike talks too much). He talks about how much he hates their English teacher (Mike really likes her but would never tell Trevor that) and how he made out with Melissa Whimner instead of going to the mandatory pep assembly (Mike thinks he might be exaggerating a little bit because she hates Trevor) and, without so much as a deep breath, moves on to talking about the most recent episode of The Simpsons.
"If Lisa were real, I'd totally do her." This gets a reaction out of Mike; he snaps his head up to stare baffled at his friend. "What? Smart girls are hot and totally wild once you get them past the whole nice girl thing."
Mike snorts and shakes his head. Despite his claims, Trevor knows absolutely nothing about girls. He is not sure who he is trying to fool because Mike definitely remembers how not all that long ago Trevor was still claiming that girls were stupid and way too giggly. It's just another way his friend pretends that the jump from elementary school to middle school somehow made him older and cooler. His friend shrugs at him and goes quiet once more.
He can hear people moving around in the next room, hushed voices and dress shoes shuffling across worn, threadbare carpet. Muffled conversations float past the door and he hears his Gram ask softly where he is. Mike stiffens, not ready to come out from under the desk and listen to more people tell him how sorry they are. He presses his back hard against the wood, imagining that it is a deep dark cave that he can get lost in; tunnels turning into mazes buried deep beneath the earth. It's safe and quiet in the deep dark and no one can find him there.
Trevor nudges him, breaking the illusion, and then squirms out from under the desk, disappearing into the living room. Mike doesn't follow him, doesn't do anything other than pick at the material of his pants, brushing away imaginary rock dust.
He goes back to compiling lists of things he hates: rain and busy intersections, hard seats and rough tissues that leave his nose raw, white flowers and faces that no longer look as they should.
He bites his lip hard, breath whistling wet through his clogged nose, chest filling too full and too empty all at once. He feels like he is a breath away from screaming or caving inward or maybe both. But he doesn't cry because he is sick of it and hates it (almost) more than anything else. He takes a deep breath and—
The door opens again and Trevor tramples through, dumping blankets and pillows just outside of arm's reach. "Dude, you know what's awesome? Forts. We should totally build a fort."
He laughs because it is the dumbest, most brilliant thing he has heard all day.
"I thought you said forts were for little kids."
Trevor smiles and then shrugs as if it isn't a big deal that his best friend has finally said something to him after three days of nothing. "Man, you are crazy. Forts will always be cool. C'mon, help me drag some chairs over."
Mike slowly crawls out of his cave, toeing off his shoes and shedding his tie as he goes, leaving them behind. He loves being able to breath and socked feet and forts.
And maybe (just a little) his stupid best friend Trevor, too.
Alternate Title: The Blanket Fortress of Solitude