Third Time—On Harvey's Boat

After a few months of working at Pearson Hardman, Mike had started to realise something—the richer people were, the more they bought things that they didn't need purely for the sake of having them. At first, this seemed stale and pompous, given the amount of people starving worldwide, but then it became apparent to Mike that once you became a member of that one percent of the population, you were constantly competing with your peers.

Rich men, Mike found, were the worst. This was true particularly with arbitrary things that may have been nice, but weren't the type of things that could make anyone happy. A bottle of wine, despite the price tag, was always going to be empty after you drank all its contents.

The best example he could think of was an argument between two men he had overheard while he'd been out with Harvey schmoozing a client. The two were sitting a few tables behind them at a restaurant, but had completely abandoned their meals in favour of passionately discussing which of them was wearing better cologne.

"Mine is Armani—I had it imported from Italy!"

"Oh, really? Because I had mine custom made for me in Austria!"

Personally, Mike was partial to scentless deodorant, fresh air and laundry.

The whole thing seemed to be an eternal pissing contest—a very expensive pissing contest, but a pissing contest nonetheless. Everything was measured in quality and price, from toilet paper to houses, clothing to significant others.

Mike thought it was sort of sad, really, to have objects people have killed over at your fingertips, but to have no desire to use them.

So it came as no surprise to him when he found out that Harvey had a boat that he'd never used, perched massively in a private harbour, neglected by a person who had only bought it to say he owned one.

"Poor boat," Mike had said empathetically when Harvey had mentioned it casually.

"It's one thing to get attached to clients, Mike, but it's just bizarre when you feel the same way about an inanimate object you've never seen," Harvey said, shaking his head in amazement at his associate who was looking genuinely grief-stricken at the idea of a boat that never got used.

"You can't be human. Do you realise that? You honestly can't be human. I'm thinking… vampire," Mike said, nodding slowly to himself.

"As much as you might get hearts and tiny stars in your eyes whenever you look at me, I can guarantee you that I don't sparkle-nor do I scale your apartment building to watch you sleep."

"Oh, that wasn't you?" Mike asked. "I should probably call the police, then."

Harvey nipped the smile that was forming at the edge of his mouth. "What does it matter if I don't use my boat? I only have it in case relatives come to town, in which case I can make a swift getaway and avoid traffic."

"Just because it doesn't talk doesn't mean it has no feelings—take me and my bike, for example."

Harvey groaned.

"Say what you like about it, Harvey, but Mercutio and I—"

"—Mercutio?"

"—have been through a lot together. I saved up for him for a whole year before I started working here, and he—"

"—it has a gender?"

"—never failed me. Not once. Actually, that makes him significantly better than every friend I've ever had—plus he cares about me, which makes him better than you."

Harvey's face flashed serious for a brief second, twirling one of his baseballs loftily in his hand, watching the stitching blur as his hand moved faster. "Mike, trust me on this one—save your adoration for things that can adore you back."

"Careful, you sound like you have a soul—wouldn't want to give people the wrong impression," Mike retorted cockily, earning a grin from Harvey as the older man tossed the ball up and caught it again swiftly, the weight in his hand firm and reassuring.

"I have a soul," he said. "It just happens to be in a bonds account, which renders it utterly useless until an unforeseeable date."

"Prove it, then."

"How would I do that, exactly? Would you like a brain scan from a qualified neurosurgeon or psychotherapist?"

"I bet you know a lot of therapists."

"Your humour is so bad it makes Louis's jokes look intelligent, kid." Harvey retorted. "Seriously, what do you want?"

"I—" Mike thought for a second, chewing his lip pensively, "—think you should go visit your boat this weekend. And actually go—don't just photo shop images of you with a captain's hat on to the deck of some random boat."

"Fine—why don't you just come with me, if you're so damn insistent on my soullessness?"

Mike grinned coyly at his boss. "Now Harvey, this wouldn't be a con to, 'accidentally' sleep with me again, would it?"

"No, I'm far too busy between Louis's wife and your girlfriend," his boss responded wittily, ignoring the fact that Mike had brought up the topic that had been covered by the Vegas rule.

OoOoO

It had occurred to Mike sometime earlier that maybe getting plastered before heading over to Harvey's boat was probably a bad idea, but that particular voice in his head wasn't on speaking terms with him. After Jenny had stormed out in a fit of rage, her blonde hair swirling around her tightened jawline, he found himself lying dejectedly on the couch and staring at a bottle of Vodka.

It sent a siren song his way, wooing him with its bitter and numbing taste that could easily be drowned by a splash of flavour. The bottle promised him the world in order to get him to drink it, whispering things in his ear that alluded logic:

You just lost your girlfriend over a petty spat—but be real, Mike, she never really wanted you anyways. If she had, she would have picked you over Trevor when they were dating. She would've loved you the way she loved him, the way you always resented him for. She would have kissed you the same way, and her lips wouldn't carry Trevor's taste, no matter how long he's been gone.

Drink me.

No—Mike rationalized. He couldn't—after all, he was meeting Harvey soon. What kind of impression would it make if he showed up drunk?

But the bottle argued back, this time with a gleeful smirk that Mike found strange because bottles can't smile.

Oh, right—Harvey. The guy who you spooned with in a hotel room across the country, the man that you let sleep in your lap. He keeps claiming so vehemently that he doesn't care about you—but you know if you show up there tonight drunk and upset he'll spend the evening subtly finding ways to cheer you up, even if it doesn't benefit him.

Drink me, because not-so-deep down you want that attention, you want an excuse for him to look at you with that expression that says all the things his words don't.

"Bullshit," Mike swore at the bottle. "I'm not gay."

Does it really matter? The Vodka retaliated. He's the only person you've ever kissed that doesn't taste like someone else, that doesn't whisper another's name when you're together.

"We're only 'together' when we're drunk—he's usually pretty distracted."

Drink me.

"Will you shut up if I do?"

Absolutely.

No, showing up at Harvey's boat drunk wasn't the plan, but Mike was having a really, really rough night.

Harvey noted something was wrong when he realised Mike was a couple minutes late and had arrived in a cab at the marina, given that 'Mercutio' was his preferred method of transportation. The fact that his associate barely stumbled past security on uneasy legs, however, firmly proved his initial suspicions.

The security guys were giving him strange looks as he let Mike wrap an arm around his neck, which were worsened by Mike shouting, "Carry me, I'm a princess!" at the top of his lungs.

Harvey Specter, however, was not the kind of person who let the judgements of two blue-collar workers bother him, so he firmly clamped a hand over Mike's mouth and dragged him towards the boat.

It was hard to hear through the impromptu-gag, but Harvey thought he could make out Mike saying something along the lines of, "Ooh—kinky."

Harvey kicked him slightly and Mike broke down into hysterical giggles on his shoulder, rubbing his fluffed up hair in the crevice between Harvey's neck and shoulder. The gesture was oddly placed, but Harvey couldn't deny that having a warm body pressed against his was something he hadn't been privileged to in a long time, and he'd missed it. Sure, Mike was drunk and not attracted to him, but the kid was also one of the only people in the world that genuinely adored Harvey—and not for money, either.

"Do I want to know why you showed up here wasted and late?" Harvey asked, his tone exasperated, but even drunk Mike managed to catch the glimmer of patience in his eyes.

Harvey felt the smile behind his hand, repressing one of his own when Mike's eyes lit up with the distant lights on the harbour. He shifted his palm slightly, allowing Mike to speak quietly as he moved his associate up onto the deck of his boat.

"Welll…" Mike started, gesturing slightly at the air, "I had many good reasons—I got dumped, and then the bottle of Vodka was being a snarky mother fucker, and then I realised I had to spend more time with you. And you'll just make a joke about my penis size, or somethin'."

"Mike," Harvey said slowly, "I would never talk about your penis. Ever. Just saying it makes me extremely uncomfortable."

"Why?" Mike asked. " 's not like you haven't seen it. Unless you closed your eyes, and I'm not that bad lookin'. Yeah, I'm actually kinda hot, in case you haven't noticed. Like, not as hot as you, but people still wanna tap this."

Harvey rolled his eyes, unwinding Mike from his torso, grabbing him by the forearms and dropping him hard onto the wood. Mike neglected to notice.

"Wow, this is a big boat! This is like…like the Titanic!" He paused, frowning at his own words. "Let's not invite Leonardo DiCaprio, m'kay?"

"Damn, I'll have to call him and cancel last minute." Harvey responded sarcastically, tugging and expensive chair closer and sitting down beside Mike, who looked up at him resentfully from his position on the deck.

"Well," Mike said. " 'm drunk."

"Really?"

"Shut up. Anywhore, I'm drunk aaaand you're sober, which makes this awkward, so can you get hammered too?" Mike asked, raising his eyebrows at Harvey.

"I'm significantly older than you, and your boss. If I get drunk with you I'd be behaving inappropriately," he said flatly, giving his associate an unimpressed look.

"You were all game for it in Las Vegas."

Harvey was quiet for a moment before muttering, "And look how that turned out."

"Call it a bonding experience," Mike suggested. "After all, during that night we were significantly closer than usual." He waggled his eyebrows.

"No," Harvey stated firmly.

"Fine—call it a failed attempt at seduction!"

"I don't know whether I should be more offended that you think I tried to seduce you, or that you think I failed. I'm torn." He said humourlessly.

"I'm heartbroken."

"I'm dealing with an idiot."

"I'm drunk."

"I need a drink."

"Hey!" Mike exclaimed. "We should start a club!"

"Yes," Harvey said dryly. "And we can call it Alcoholics Anonymous."

Mike grinned coyly at his boss. "You really shouldn't let me be drunk and miserable alone. That's…mean. Like, Louis mean. Or Kyle. I don't like Kyle. He has a dumb name. I mean, what the hell where his parents thinking? Kyle. That's almost as bad as a lawyer named Harvey. Shouldn't you be named William? Or Edgar? I mean, it sounds like you're from a cheesy seventies movie."

"At least I'm not named Mike—wait, wait, hang on a minute. Am I honestly arguing with a drunk college drop-out over my name?" He paused.

"Yes," Mike said.

"That was rhetorical."

"I like that kind of dinosaur too."

"Oh god," Harvey said, standing up and crossing the deck towards the fully stocked bar.

OoOoO

Mike had thought his hangover in Vegas was barely shortlisted for one of the top ten worst hangovers of all time, and in many ways, he had been right.

This one, however, wasn't shortlisted at all. It was proudly positioned at number nine, right below some of the most infamous hangovers of world leaders.

"Holy shit," he groaned, almost bursting into tears when he opened his eyes. His brain felt as though it had been squeezed out his ear, put in a glass jar and shaken, and then reinserted through his nose.

The room around him was foreign—the walls were a dark brown and were shifting in and out, as though they were on an electronic switch, and there were very few windows. He groaned again. Then sat up. Then slid back down again, because the air was cool and for some reason the bed he was lying in was incredibly warm.

He rested his cheek on exposed flesh, wondering how Jenny had gotten significantly larger and much more muscular, but not caring. For some reason she smelt much more masculine than usual, but judging by the particular way his muscles complained when he rolled over, the sex had been better. He buried his nose in her skin, inhaling deeply as he wrapped an arm around her neck.

And froze. Why was Jenny's hair so much shorter?

Mike yelped in shock, throwing himself away from the body in horror, clawing at the sheets as though he was a captured animal.

Oh. My. God. I've been kidnapped. Oh shit. Oh shit. This is bad, this is very, very bad. Harvey was right, I shouldn't have talked to strangers, even if they do have free samples! Oh God—I'm going to die. Here, alone. With a pervert, and not with the Victoria's Secret model I used to jack off to when I was fourteen, either.

The person on the other side of the bed muttered something that sounded vaguely along the lines of his name, and Mike's heart halted abruptly in his chest.

Oh, fuck—it's moving! Jesus, all I can see is its hair. Is there a person under that mess, or was I abducted by a Labrador?

The kidnapper rolled over in his sleep, murmuring.

Mike screamed.

As soon as the sound left his mouth, he quickly backpedalled and disentangled himself, hyperventilating so much he fell off the bed. The sheets came with him, wrapping around his ankles and calves in a desperate attempt to hold him in place. Mike had never been more glad to get out of bed.

Harvey woke up at the sound of the bone-crunching thud that typically came from people when they fell flat on their ass, and he propped himself up his elbows with a grin on his face. Any morning that started out with an ungraceful fall that wasn't performed by him was undoubtedly a good one, and he turned on his side expecting to see a partially clothed woman.

The expression instantly sunk off of his face when he realise he was sadly mistaken.

"Rapist!" Mike shrieked, looking up at him in horror and disgust. His face morphed, however when he saw his boss and it occurred to him that, shit, we did it again.

Harvey sent him a look of disbelief. "Again?" He asked, rubbing his face with his hand and getting the sleep out of his eyes, still managing to appear as confident and cocky as he would be at the office. "Jesus, Mike, can't you keep your hands off of me?"

Mike was in shock, having just switched from mind-numbing fear to an oh shit state of mind, staring at Harvey as though he was a creature from the deep. Then he burst out laughing.

"Hahaha—I couldn't even," he wheezed, "take you seriously if you—" he gasped for breath, "—told me my grandmother died. Holy crap, Harvey—your hair!"

Harvey scowled, glancing up at his lion like mane that now closely resembled the kind of style surfers would have sported after strenuous hours on the water. A few pieces stuck up at odd ends, and some lighter tufts were revealed that reminded Mike of the photo of Harvey he saw from his time at the DA's office.

Mike grinned cheekily. "Go back to sleep—I kind of want to pet it."

Harvey rolled his eyes. "You missed that opportunity when you screamed and then fell off the bed."

"Where are my clothes?"

"Why would I know, kid?"

"You're…I dunno, you, I guess," he said, clambering awkwardly to his feet. Harvey quickly became very aware of the fact the two of them had sex last night, spotting a bite mark on Mike's neck that most definitely hadn't been there before and seemed to be the general size of his jaw. His associate was clad in a pair of his boxers, and if Harvey was the kind of man who would feel uncomfortable, he would have now.

As Mike bent over to look under the bed, he became quickly aware of something else.

"Mike?" he asked, his voice hesitant for once.

"Yeah?" Mike responded, looking up at him with bright blue eyes.

"What's that on your finger?"

Mike looked down at his left hand, his face instantly paling at the sight that met his eyes; an expensive looking, plain gold band wrapped itself perfectly around his index finger, jarring against his smooth skin.

"What the fu—"

Harvey grabbed at the younger man's hand and pulled it towards him, glaring at the ring in a mix of anger and fear.

"I won that ring when I was sixteen in a poker game."

Mike's breathing became rapid and he tugged his hand back towards himself in disgust, yanking on the ring and desperately trying to twist it off—but the ring held fast, and Mike was left panting and shooting Harvey terrified looks.

All Harvey could manage to say was, "You've got to be kidding me."

OoOoO

I rewrote this THREE times… yeah. Nuff said. Apologies for the wait, and the lower standard of this chapter, but I had no idea what scenario I should've used, so I listened to my fish, Balthazar. And he's a fish, so the best thing he could come up with was boat.

So, ladies and gents, could I have some help? Any ideas in which Mike and Harvey could sleep together?

Also—I posted a poll on my profile, asking who from Suits would be the best male stripper. My editor and I are in debate over this, so I'd love to know what your thoughts are.

I'm team Harvey on this one :D

LeahxLeah