WARNING: As part of the fill for the prompt, this story deals with extreme bullying and sexual assault. It is not graphic, but please proceed with caution.
Brownie points to those that recognize the song Mike is singing.
Mike flops onto the bed, a boneless mess as if the last of his energy was drained out of him by the brief trek from the living room to here. He doesn't close his eyes immediately, as Harvey half-expects (hopes), but continues to stare at Harvey, eyelids drooping but refusing to close. Harvey considers digging out a clean t-shirt for him, knowing the sweat soaked shirt he is currently wearing is now drying and sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He discards the idea; the terrified sound Mike made at just being touched still ringing in his ears. It can wait until later, when that look isn't still in Mike's eyes, when Harvey isn't still trying to get his hands to stop shaking.
"I'm just going to—," he jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bathroom. It goes without saying that he will leave the door open enough that Mike can still see him, still hear him moving around. Mike slowly blinks at him in response, which Harvey supposes is the best he is going to get.
His leg shakes as he tries to keep the arch of his foot from touching the tiles in his bathroom, toes curling against the cold floor. He flicks on the light before bending down to rummage under his sink for his first aid kit, a basket with a hodge-podge of Band-Aids, Neosporin, alcohol and cotton balls. Harvey wets down a washcloth before finally sitting on the edge of his toilet to survey the damage. It's a jagged piece dug into the fleshy soft arch of his foot, dried blood flaking as he cleans the area so he can see what he is doing. He works on auto-pilot, barely feeling the sting. His fingers pull and tug on the large sliver of glass, while his mind twists and turns. What did he miss? In all those moments of joking, teasing, poking, mocking, and deriding, those quiet evenings filled with the rustle of paper, the scratching of pens, and the hum of jazz, in between stolen cups of coffee and hastily eaten hot dogs, he had failed to see this dark monstrous thing that is a part of his associate's life. And there is no doubt in his mind that this isn't some bizarre isolated incident, brought on by lack of sleep and too many energy drinks. Finger tips slick with blood, he watches a fat drop hit the white tile under his foot; he sees flinches, at loud sounds and too close bodies, not detected before, slight and tightly controlled. How much is he really remembering and how much is fabrication now colored by hard-won knowledge? He can't be sure; his own failure warping each remembered encounter.
He finishes, foot now wrapped, and leaves the mess on the countertop to be dealt with later. He snags his phone from his dresser, feeling Mike's eyes on him the entire time. Dragging a chair next to the bed, he sits and props his injured foot up next to Mike's leg, close enough to give him a reassuring nudge when he starts softly whimpering when sleep manages to drag him under for scant seconds before jerking himself awake, but not otherwise touching him. In the light of day, with the memories of the past few hours still fresh and embarrassment slowly setting in, Harvey is not sure that Mike would be willing to accept anything else from him.
He thumbs his phone on and first sends a text to Donna: Rookie and I won't be in this morning. Will explain everything later. Promise. A short email to Jessica requires a little more finesse, more explanation. Harvey explains away their absence with tales of a paper trail and an interview they needed to follow up on for their case. He, sadly, cannot just skip out of work entirely today, as much as the burning muscles in his back and shoulders and the dull ache behind his eyes want him to just curl up and sleep for the next three days. He—they have responsibilities that cannot be brushed off, but he can buy them some time, at least until later this afternoon when they have to appear in court.
As he types, he listens to Mike, eyes flicking over occasionally to note how Mike continues to avoid sleep, tensing up each time his body starts to relax. He's humming softly, off tune and wobbly, breath hitching when he fills in parts with words. He remembers his little brother doing something similar during thunderstorms or when screaming floated through the thin as paper apartment walls, seeking comfort in the sound. Harvey leans back, eyes closing, and relaxes for a brief moment.
"W-w-with scarves of red tied 'round their throats . . ." Mikes hums the next few lines, sniffling into the pillow, voice tapering off into a whisper. "And I turned 'round and there you go. . ." He continues, snatches of notes and words managing to calm his nerves.
Harvey drifts, feeling warm sunlight streaming through his windows brushing his cheeks, exhaustion tugging at his bones. He hears distantly Mike settling further into the bed. He opens his eyes when he feels Mike shuffle closer, sheet covered hip coming to press against Harvey's leg, fingers barely brushing his ankle.
In the quiet blanketing the apartment, Harvey studies the crow's feet that pinch around Mike's eyes, looking out of place on his young face. Mike sighs, shifting uncomfortably under the scrutiny, and licks his lips. His mouth opens and closes several times before he manages to finally get the words out.
"That doesn't—I don't—it's not that bad." It sounds like the excuse it is and Harvey's too tired, too rubbed raw to just let it be.
"The hell it isn't." It comes out harsher than he intended, but anything he said earlier to comfort Mike is a blatant lie; this isn't okay or simple or something that just can be ignored. He may have wanted to wait until they both had at least a little bit of sleep and preferably either a strong cup of coffee or a shot (or five) of whiskey to discuss this, but he can already see Mike shutting down and locking everything away. It's now or he'll never get the kid to talk about it again. And damn it, he doesn't want to be the asshole here, but he will press this because he has to. "How often?"
Mike shrugs and rolls over, back now facing him. "Just happens sometimes. Gets worse when I am really tired or stressed."
"So, all the goddamn time." Harvey runs a hand through his hair, trying to figure out the best way to ask because Mike isn't offering anything, uncharacteristically closed lipped. He gives up and goes for blunt asking. "Does this have to do with your parents?"
Mike snorts. "I was three when they died. I barely remember them."
He nods and files this bit of information away. "Okay. Trevor?"
"Jesus, Harvey, not everything terrible that has happened to me links back to Trevor."
"Precedent says otherwise."
Mike rolls over and glares at him, jaw clenched tight. "Fuck you. Trevor helped me through this shit long before you sauntered into my life."
Harvey bites his tongue to keep from pointing out that Trevor's version of helping seemed to go hand-in-hand with smoking as much pot as possible. "Fine." Mike sags a little bit at this, relief and disappointment easy to read in the way his rigid shoulders drop. "But he isn't here now and I am. And despite what I've said about not wanting to hear about your soap opera life, this doesn't fall under that category."
Mike is the first to look away, worrying his lip between his teeth. The silence stretches out between them before Mike finally lies back down, tossing an arm over his eyes, and letting out a shaky sigh.
"What happened, Mike?" Harvey studies Mike's tense profile and pitches his voice to just above a whisper, not sure what exactly he is asking for but knowing that both of them need this, if for different reasons. "And don't lie to me."
