The next few days passed pretty uneventfully; as it turned out, the majority of the lights had survived Mike's nightmare, save for Harvey's bedside lamp. And, as promised, the following two nights involved the both of them sitting side by side, with hockey playing on the TV and Mike slowly but surely getting more involved in the game, yelling at the screen at random intervals and sitting right on the edge of the couch, at which point Harvey would just watch him with an amused laugh perpetually on the tip of his tongue. He had to admit, living with someone else – regardless of whether or not it had been unwilling at first – had been somewhat of a blessing in disguise. He enjoyed being alone, but equally, having someone around to converse with and vent to was something he could get used to.
On the fourth day, Mike was all set for his companion to return so their routine could continue. That's exactly what it was now; routine. And while he wasn't strictly a creature of habit, he knew Harvey was. So as the day gradually came to a close and Mike was still alone, he went from boredom to impatience. What made it worse was his inability to really do anything; he could just about turn the lights on and off, but anything vaguely entertaining was off the cards. The hours crawled by, the sun slowly left the sky, until Mike was just wandering around the house, flicking switches and trying to find ways to pass the time. Harvey probably had to work late, which was fair enough, Mike supposed. It just meant he had more time to be nosy and go through Harvey's stuff. Like a child home alone, he opened Harvey's bedroom door with caution, as though there was still a risk of him getting caught. This had been his room, once upon a time, but there was no doubting it; Harvey had done a much classier job of decorating it. Hell, he'd even made his bed – something Mike very rarely did. There wasn't much on the walls, but the room didn't look so much bare as it did minimalist, the furniture alone probably cost more than the house. Well, maybe not that much…but it made Mike feel as though he'd stepped into the VIP suite of a ten star hotel.
With effort, he managed to open the wardrobe doors, a small light coming on as he did so. Reaching out, Mike pushed his hand through the rows of suits and shirts. He imagined they all smelled of Harvey's cologne, which in turn he imagined was expensive, but subtle, sophisticated. Like him. The whole closet was so beautifully organized – everything was where it was supposed to be, nothing was out of place. For some reason, all Mike really wanted to do right then was be able to feel the material beneath his hands and between his fingertips, to be able to envelope himself in the clean, silver-grey sheets of the bed and really feel them warm around him. He wanted to be reminded of what cooking food and beer and freshly washed laundry all smelled like, what it was to be touched by another person. Not just sexually, either – a pat on the back, a handshake, a playful shove, anything; when Harvey had tried to touch his shoulder several nights back, he'd felt nothing. And for the first time in a long time – almost since he'd been killed – it'd hurt. Hurt emotionally, psychologically. You know, that's why hot drinks are described as being comforting? They mimic the warmth of other people. And he couldn't even make himself a coffee to help himself feel better.
Leaving the wardrobe doors open, he stepped carefully towards the en suite, fingertips leaving ghostly trails along the wall as he went. The bathroom was similar to the bedroom in every way but one. The body washes, shampoos, hair products and just the sheer amount of bottles were all organized – probably in alphabetical order, in order of what works the best. Everything was spotlessly clean. But, and this would have been the first thing he'd noticed had it not been for the obscene amount of personal grooming products, the towel rack was a mess. Literally, towelmageddon. It seemed so out of synch with the rest of the house. He wouldn't have said Harvey was obsessive, but he did like things being just-so. So seeing his towels just thrown haphazardly at the rack as if Mike had personally used them all just to spite Harvey was…odd. It was around that point that Mike realized he was literally standing in another man's bathroom, criticising his towel arrangement.
He really had hit that level of boredom.
Heading back into the bedroom, he gracelessly threw himself onto the bed, letting himself sprawl across the duvet like he'd fallen from a great height. Eventually, he pushed himself up, and leaned back into the pillows, proudly making no incriminating indents to show he was there. Folding his arms up behind his head, he closed his eyes for a moment, simulating a deep, smug inhale. This had been his room once, after all. It felt right to be in here again, even if this bed was bigger than his had been. His moment of bliss didn't last long, however. The front door opened downstairs, and the sound of voices filled the emptiness of the ground floor. Sitting up, Mike sat still for a moment, trying to determine who had come in. It was definitely Harvey, but the second voice he didn't recognize. Despite knowing he wouldn't make any noise, he still eased himself off the bed, and crept towards the door, then out into the corridor where he rested his elbows on the bannister. The second voice was undeniably female…and with a look at the clock back in the bedroom, it wasn't anyone Harvey worked with. This was the first time Harvey had brought anyone home since he'd moved here, and Mike didn't know why he'd expected this to never happen. Harvey was rich. He was charismatic, successful, and…gorgeous.
He really just thought that. Even in the afterlife it's still possible to have your sexuality fuck you over. Who knew?
It was true though, Harvey really was, and the pull that Mike had felt in his belly a few nights ago during the first hockey game had now turned into a painful ache. He considered just disappearing from the evening until Harvey left the next day, but he found himself spiting that thought, and cautiously going downstairs anyway. Harvey and his mystery guest were against the far wall, hands wandering and Harvey's suit jacket falling to the floor as Mike neared the bottom step. He knew he shouldn't stay, that he should make himself scarce, give his housemate some privacy. But he found himself stuck in place, hand clamped to the bannister as he watched the stunning brunette explore Harvey's body with her hands. It wasn't until she grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and pushed him against the wall instead that Harvey deigned to open his eyes, one minute letting her kiss his neck, the next realizing they were being watched. He went to say something, but the look on Mike's face before he disappeared from view told him, for once, to keep his comments to himself.
