Hi everyone!
Firstly, I would like to thank those of you who have read my previous story (or those who will - it's not as dark as this one, I can assure you!). I do hope you enjoyed it (will enjoy?).
Secondly, it's been ages since I uploaded, but I had trouble finding a spare moment. This story won't be very long (9 chapters if nothing changes) and I'll try to upload it two chapters at a time, since they'll all be pretty short. The general idea came to my head just after I first watched "Blind Sided" a long time ago, but I never got round to writing it down till now.
Oh, and I do not own Suits. Yet!
Chapter 1 in which Mike doesn't get his shit together
(Saturday)
Get your shit together.
He couldn't get rid of this voice throughout the evening.
He heard it when he was kicking Tess out of his apartment. Yes, 'kicking out' was exactly what he did. He watched her quickly gather her belongings, shooting him shocked and angry glares, his face calm and emotionless, but inside he just wanted to hug her, run his fingers through her golden hair and tell her it was okay. She was pathetic. Disgusting. He could picture her slipping into her husband's bed, whispering into his ear and caressing him with the same hand she had touched Mike, insincere in her words and actions. It made him feel sick.
But he made himself feel sick too. He was pathetic, and no matter how often he thought that he didn't owe Tess's husband a thing, that he wasn't the one who should be faithful, that he wasn't breaking any promises, any trust, he still felt disgusted by his own actions and by how he kept lying to himself.
Tess locked the door behind her with an expression of a betrayed doe and Mike was alone again.
But when he woke up Saturday morning and realised that she was gone, that he would never wake up in the middle of the night at the sound of her light steps as she tiptoed only in her underwear to make some tea she thought was best for insomnia — he felt relieved.
He took a long shower, he made himself breakfast and he started tidying up. He got rid of old pizza boxes and beer cans; he washed the windows; he ripped the sheets from his pillows and he replaced them with new ones, which had never had a married woman's head lying on them; he vacuumed the whole apartment and it suddenly became so spacious and full of light, and optimistic.
It was the remaining pot he found troublesome. He knew he should get rid of it too, but he couldn't bring himself to it, so he just put it back on the bookshelf and decided he would deal with it later.
And then he went shopping. He strolled around, putting different items in his trolley, trying hard to pick the healthy ones, because he decided he would take better care of himself than he had before, all part of getting his shit back together, new beginnings and so on. Pepper, bread, flour, chocolate — okay, he wasn't doing very well with the healthy bit —, tea, rice, noodles, tomato sauce—
Tomato sauce. He suddenly remembered how he would come back home after the day, hungry as hell, how he would climb the stairs as quickly as he could, wash his hands with green soap she had always bought in the shop downstairs, sit behind the table and eat spaghetti, getting tomato sauce on his lips and chin, and nose, and she would watch him, amusement and affection in her eyes.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He wasn't going to break apart in a shopping mall, in a crowd of people, with a can of tomato sauce in his hand! It was just a can. It had nothing to do with anyone. It was an item. But that's what items do. They embody feelings and memories of others, because they do not have them themselves. And that's why the tomato sauce was soon put down gently in the trolley, and why Mike tried not to notice the green soap when he walked past it, and why he chuckled at the sight of hair gel.
The tomato sauce made him realise another thing: he was not okay. Not yet. He could lie to himself all he wanted, but he was lonely, he was in despair and he missed her so much—
His apartment was empty when he got back. Just as empty as he felt inside. There was just him, him and the tomato sauce can, and the rest of the weekend to get through before he could get back to work, to people who would maybe make him feel less alone.
He needed a distraction. And company.
Get your shit together.
Mike walked over to the bookshelf.
Get your shit together.
I'm sorry, thought Mike, fiddling with the little bag. But shut up now.
After he had finished the first cigarette, the voice disappeared and stayed shut. He would only hear it again in the evenings, when he would lay in bed, somewhere between being awake and being asleep.