Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

It's Christmas morning. Harvey never spends the holiday with family anymore. He makes excuses not to see his brother, sends a gift for his niece to make up for the guilt that will inevitably gnaw on him until the new year. Normally he leaves town, goes somewhere warm and sunny and tropical, anywhere it won't feel like his least favourite day of the year.

But not this year.

He's paid off the owner of the local batting cages, had one of the pitching machines modified to throw grounders.

He hasn't left the pitcher's mound since high school. While other guys were working on their footwork, fielding double plays, Harvey was perfecting the spin on his knuckleball, chasing that elusive 100mph fastball.

Once a ball was hit, Harvey's job was basically done - unless there was a line drive to his glove or a bunt with a man in scoring position. If a ball left the infield his job was effectively to stand there and look pretty.

But he’s not a pitcher anymore. The Mets don’t want him to pitch. No, they want him at first base. First base!

Every batter who catches a piece of a ball will be heading straight for him. Every fielded ball will go to him so he can try and get the out.

He has just over six weeks to get his shit together before spring training begins. 

First base!

The modified machine can only throw him one kind of grounder, but he's making it work. Starting in different positions, making himself have to move to intercept it. He's been doing this for a couple weeks and he's only just starting to feel like he's making progress. His brand new first baseman's glove is finally breaking in.

He's marked out a square for first base - because that's the other part of his new position - keeping a foot on the bag. If he's a quarter inch off that runner is safe and then he's the reason the other team is only a base away from scoring position.

Field. Tag. Throw. Repeat.

It's not rocket science. He's been watching guys do it his whole life. And yet...

His feet tangle and he stumbles. A knee hits the pavement. Hard.

“Goddamnit,” he grumbles to no one and also the universe at large as he walks off the sore spot. That one will definitely leave a bruise.

First base!

This is insane. His agent has reminded him of that nearly every time they’ve spoken since signing his new deal. And he hasn’t disagreed. The part neither has the stomach to mention? No other team was calling. This was the only way for him to stay in the game and the game is all he’s ever known. There is no Plan B.

He takes a seat on the cold pavement, digs his phone out of his bag, and calls the only other person he knows who will be just as committed to ignoring the holiday.

“Hey Rookie,” Donna greets. It's her new nickname for him. First client to ever switch positions after over a decade in a sport. There’s the sound of wine being poured.

“A little early for the red, Red,” he counters.

“Never too early for mimosas,” she tells him, a fond smile in her voice.

He’d like to think they’d be friends outside of all this, if he didn’t pay her a percentage of everything he earned. Maybe they’d even have been something more than friends, if they’d met some other way. But Donna’s been his representation for basically his entire career. Once he realised his first agent's assistant had been the one doing all the work, catching contract mistakes, getting him on the guest list for parties where he could charm the brands into endorsement deals, he made the case to get her promoted and they've been the dream team ever since.

"How the batting cage?" she asks, because she's always been able to know things like that even though Harvey's had his phone checked for bugs. Twice.

"You won't believe it," he tells her, looking around, "I have the whole place to myself."

"It's a Christmas miracle," she laughs and he smiles. "What did you ask Santa for this year?"

For once Harvey isn't ready with a quick joke. There are too many things he'd wish for if he believed in that sort of thing. A new shoulder. His old salary. Someone to wake up with in the morning. "Amex ever get back to you?"

There's a brief pause and he tries not to squirm as she reads between his lines. "I was going to save it for a New Years treat," she says, back to business. "They countered with 3 posts on social and two video spots, digital only, one year exclusivity."

She's not leading with the number that matters which means that number’s not good. "How much?"

"One-fifty."

Harvey tries to remind himself that $150,000 is a lot of money to the average person, but his ego takes the hit like a sucker punch. In a Yankees uniform that deal would have paid almost ten times the amount. At least the tabloids have finally found better things to print than speculations about his love life...

"Pass."

"Harvey-"

"I said pass."

"We can counter-"

"Donna." He waits until he's sure she's taken the hint. And then, because it's Christmas, and despite his best efforts he always feels sentimental during the holidays: "Thanks for trying. For everything."

There's a silence and he appreciates all that she doesn’t say to fill it. Things that she'd never say. That at this point in his career any other agent would be farming him out to their assistant. Or dropping him entirely. That this deal with the Mets is at best a stay of execution, at worst a joke that will undermine his otherwise successful career. That her roster of young up and coming sports stars need her more than he does now. That time is money.

But it's Donna. And loyalty is the backbone of their relationship.

"Merry Christmas, Harvey,” she says, and means it.

He picks up his glove, flexes his hand in the still-stiff leather. Gets back to work.

"I don't want him in my infield," Louis fumes, right up in Mike's face. "He's a disgrace to the game!"

Mike looks to Jessica for help even though he knows better. She's the one person in this organisation who can manage to call off the attack dog that is Louis Litt, Head Coach and Major Pain In The Ass. But Jessica only offers a hint of a smile, as if this tirade is somehow amusing to her.

"He's off to a rough start," Mike admits. He's been swamped since spring training began and hasn't made it over to watch any of the practices, but he's heard plenty from Louis and the rest of the coaching staff. "If I need to trade for another first baseman-"

"Any!" Louis corrects, still so close Mike can almost taste what he had for lunch. "Any first baseman! We don't have one! We have a washed up pitcher you rescued from the pound. We'd be better off with my Aunt Norma - at least she knows how to read an infield fly!"

It's always been hard to admit when he's wrong, but Mike's not wrong about Harvey Specter. He may have just… underestimated how much work it would be to transition him from the mound, that's all.

"Who do you want?" he asks, because Louis always has an endgame in mind when he comes at him like this.

"Kyle Durant."

Mike takes a half step back so he's out of spittle distance. Durant's a decent first baseman making waves in the minors, but there's a reason he went after Specter instead. "Have you even watched the tape of his at bats?"

"I don't need to watch the tape, I'm looking at the numbers, which was supposed to be your job. He has a home run rate of 6%. 6%!"

"That's because he's hacking at anything that even comes close to the strike box!"

"He's aggressive!" Louis counters. Now it's his turn to look to Jessica for backup. She gives him equally little. "We used to value that in baseball."

"He's wasting swings!" Mike's trying not to shout, but it's getting harder and harder to keep control because they've had this exact argument before about a dozen different players. Mike could re-quote the stats about expected outcomes when the count is 1-2 vs 2-1, about how any pitch outside the strike zone is an opportunity to shift the count in their favor. All these hitters have to do is not swing, but apparently that’s like asking these muscle-heads not to breathe.

"If this was a casino," he says, trying to find some new way to make this magically sink in, "and we had blackjack dealers hitting on 19, what would you do?"

The answer here is 'fire their asses', but Louis is apparently not a betting man because he just huffs and mutters something about ballet and class.

Mike gestures at Louis while looking at Jessica like Help me out here.

"Exhibition games start in two weeks," she says, finally getting involved. "Specter can't be our only option at first."

Louis grins like a child whose mom just pat him on the head and Mike has to bite back something equally juvenile.

"I can get him ready," Mike insists even though he's never coached a base in his life.

"I told you when I hired you that I'm interested to see what you can do," she says, poised like a snake you didn't realise had venom. "That doesn't include turning my team into a joke. Louis, keep training Specter. Mike, find me another option."

"I can get Durant," he says, running the odds, different routes to take to get him on their roster. "But we'll have to give up a draft pick."

"Nothing above the third round."

Mike smirks. "I'm not giving up anything above the fifth."

She nods, satisfied. "Get it done."

Mike makes a quick line for the door. He can hear Louis popping off as he heads down the hallway. He'll make the trade for Durant, but it's a bandaid move at best. Durant's the opposite kind of player that he wants on his team. He's got all the huff and puff and macho bullshit the scouts love, and nothing else. Sure, he's hit a few homers when it counted, but he also went down swinging 60% more than he needed to. He’s impatient, which is apparently the one skill that’s impossible to teach baseball players. The question at hand is: Is it just as impossible to teach someone like Harvey Specter to play first base? Because Mike Ross is betting his entire future on that answer being no. And could it really be as bad as Louis is making it out to be? That man is a drama queen at baseline. They don’t need Specter to be the league MVP, he just needs to stay in the black when the Mets tally their assets vs liabilities.

Mike backtracks, heads out to the field. If he hurries he might be able to catch the tail end of the day's drills.

Clover Park is the Mets home away from home and even though he’s barely been with the team a few seasons, he knows it as well as his knows his home borough back in the city.

He reaches the field to find that practice is over. There’s only one man still out there in the fading afternoon sun, and Mike knows by the cut of his frame against the stands it’s who he came to see.

His steps slow. He pauses at the edge of the gate, lets himself observe.

The blazingly confident man from the watch ads morphs into a human being right before his eyes. And a nervous one at that. One of the interns is lining up to hit grounders off the tee. Specter’s on his back feet before the ball’s even hit. There’s no finesse. There’s no poise. There’s only a man who’s in way over his head and doing his damndest to hide it.

“Hey Sam,” he says, walking over, hoping he got the intern's name right. “I’ll take it from here.”

Sam looks disappointed, but the kid will have other opportunities to drool over the players he grew up idolizing as the season goes on. Right now it’s more important for Mike to check in on his riskiest investment to date.

“Wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again,” Harvey calls from first base.

“Disappointed?” Mike asks, flexing his grip on the bat.

“No,” Harvey says simply, and it’s so genuine Mike nearly drops the damn thing.

“Ready?” he calls, trying to refocus, hoping to god he doesn’t whiff this.

“For you?” Harvey returns - and is he flirting? “I doubt it.”

Mike’s grip breaks mid-swing.

Whack!

The bat barely catches the top of the ball. It bounces pathetically down the first baseline. “I didn’t warm up,” he says, quickly reaching for another, kicking himself. Harvey Specter doesn’t flirt with guys like him. His brain needs to knock it off.

“Right,” Harvey says, holding back a laugh. “For tee ball.”

Mike rolls his shoulders for dramatic effect. Stretches his neck side to side to get his head back on straight. “I wasn’t going to mention this, but I was peewee league MVP in first grade."

"You're telling me you peaked at the age of 6?"

Harvey chuckles, but it's not the mocking kind. His smile is a bright as the lights they play under for night games and Mike seriously needs to focus here or he's going to look like an idiot in front of the player he's way too smart to have a crush on. He takes a breath. Scuffs his feet. Adjusts his grip. Like the game is on the line here.

Whack!

This one zings down the space between first and second. It wasn't where he was aiming but Harvey's glove is right there, making a clean out.

"Not bad," he calls, barely managing to strip the surprise from his voice.

"Getting there," Harvey says, throwing the ball back.

Mike loads the tee. “Louis giving you any trouble?”

“Nothing I can’t handle. He’s all bark no bite.”

Whack!

This one’s a real fly ball. Harvey has to scramble back to get under it. He makes it, but barely.

“Good hands,” Mike shouts. It’s what his grandfather used to say to build his confidence.

Harvey shakes his head like he’s onto him. He could tell him off right here and now, most guys in his position would. But instead they trade a look. There's an unspoken understanding in that moment. They both know what's on the line with this experiment, what it will cost them if it doesn't work.

Harvey nods.

Mike tees up another ball. 

There's hope for them yet.

Chapter Text

Two days before the regular season starts, a miracle happens. Harvey hasn't been praying for it - Harvey Specter doesn't pray - but there have been plenty of implied prayers since he met Mike Ross in a bar six months ago, and it looks like one of them is finally being answered.

The Mets don't need him at first base.

They made a few trades during spring training, brought up some young hotshot from the minor leagues that everyone's already talking about: Kyle Durant.

Which should be bad news. But it’s not. Because there’s more.

One of their other starters got his ankle busted sliding into third and he's going to miss the first half of the season. Which means a DH slot has opened up. And it’s got Harvey’s name all over on it.

Being a designated hitter isn't everyone's dream assignment. There's a lot of time spent on the bench. But as a former pitcher, it gives Harvey plenty of time to study his opponents, to get back to doing what he's good at.

And it feels great.

Just showing up at the plate being who he is gets in the head of the younger pitchers. Cy Young award winner. Olympic team captain. Two-time league MVP. They think he can read their minds because he always seems to know when a changeup is coming. But he's not psychic. The secret's always been the same. Take your time. Don't swing at bullshit.

As the season gets underway he finally starts to feel like his old self again. He gets on base more than any other player on the team. Draws walks, mostly. But there's one chop that drives in two runs and earns him a triple. That night is nothing short of amazing.

The only downside? They're still practicing him as a first baseman. He's not entirely sure why. Durant has the position locked down. The talking heads on the sports networks keep gushing about him like he's the next Alex Rodriguez. Even Donna's asking him to put a word in. Harvey’s not sure what's worse, helping his agent line up his future replacement, or being the same guy's backup plan.

Still, he shows up for practice, puts the work in. More often than not it's not up to Louis's exacting standards, which is why he's grateful for days like these, when Mike takes a break from whatever he does in the front office, hits him flies off the tee so he can practice his footwork.

"What do you think of Tejada?" Mike asks, slicing the ball high into the air.

Harvey loses it against the sun for a second, but makes a clean catch. He's never quite sure what Mike's angling at with these questions. Is he looking for actual advice? Or does he just hate the peace and quiet of an empty ballfield?

"He's got a good arm," Harvey says, tossing the ball back so it rolls to a stop by home plate. "I still don't know how he does that curveball."

Mike doesn't answer, not directly. His mind never seems to relax. It's like he's playing 162 simultaneous chess matches and whatever his body happens to be doing is an annoying distraction. Harvey saw him walk into a doorframe once. He wasn't even on his phone, just walked right into it.

"Do you think they'll start Malone next week?"

They're up against the Red Sox in the next series. Harvey shrugs. "I would."

Whack!

The ball skips along the dirt. Harvey scoops it up, tosses it back.

"His shoulder looked tight when they were up against the Tigers a couple days ago."

Sometimes it's hard to tell when Mike's just thinking out loud, but Harvey answers anyway. "I didn't watch the game."

Whack!

This one shanks hard into foul territory, pinballs among the empty seats. Harvey looks for Mike's reaction, his hitting's been getting better along with Harvey's fielding, but the younger man isn’t fazed by the flub, is already fishing another ball from the milk crate at his feet.

Harvey expects him to tee up another, but instead Mike hesitates, puzzling over some new variable. It's strangely captivating. Harvey gets a little too lost in the moment, watching his mind work at this fevered pace. It's almost jarring when Mike's attention snaps back to him.

"You want to go watch the tape?"

"Right now?" It's not that Harvey has plans, he's just trying to keep up with the conversation Mike's been having without him.

"Yeah," Mike says, dropping the ball back in the bin, like it's already been decided. "Actually, I want your take on something."

The bat gets abandoned by the tee for the equipment managers to collect later. Harvey has to jog to keep up.

The bowels of major league stadiums are never much to write home about. The Yankees had a state of the art set up. Weight rooms, rehab rooms, banks of video monitors to watch game tape in, chairs with actual lumbar support. The Mets? Well, it’s better not to compare.

Mike thumps a fist on the top of the screen and the static retreats. Harvey pulls up a rusty metal folding chair and wonders if his tetanus shots are up to date.

“There’s a guy we have in the minors I want to bring up,” Mike says, searching for a tape on a massive shelf of video cassettes. Impossible to say if it’s the Mets’ budget keeping them analog or Mike’s preference. He finds what he’s looking for and pops the tape in. The screen reluctantly flickers to life.

Harvey watches a guy hobble from the dugout. Not walk. Hobble.

What the hell…

“He’s got a club foot,” Mike explains without taking his eyes off the screen.

“You want to bring up a guy with a club foot?”

“I don’t need him to run,” Mike shrugs, impatient. “I need him to pitch.” He fast forwards the tape, hits play when he finds the right moment. “Watch this.”

Harvey doesn’t want to watch. He’s finally connecting the dots about how Mike Ross runs the New York Mets: like an Island of Misfit Toys. But what happens on the screen is enough to force his attention back where Mike wants it.

There’s the windup, but there’s no push off the mound because of the foot. And the result is the wildest screwball Harvey’s ever seen.

“Pretty wicked, right?” Mike says, a childlike smirk tugging his cheeks. He finally looks at Harvey then, and Harvey can feel his heart thump like a ball hitting the mitt.

He swallows, tears his eyes away before Mike has a chance to read into it. “Never seen anything like it.”

“I know,” Mike says. “He destroys left handed hitters.”

The only word to describe the feeling welling in Harvey’s chest is awe. That someone as young as Mike, who’s never played past junior varsity, can have this much insight into a game that’s so notoriously closed to outsiders.

He trains his focus back on the screen even though he can’t help but ask, “Where did you come from?”

“Brooklyn. Same as Captain America and George Costanza,” Mike answers, already missing the heat of Harvey’s undivided attention. He matches the man’s gaze, plays the tape forward, but puts it on mute.

“You know what I mean,” Harvey says, relaxing into his seat as if to signal he wants the long version, not another cheeky sound bite.

“My grandfather played for the Red Sox back in the day,” he says, cheating a glance over. This conversation usually goes better if he offers some kind of old school credentials first. “But I was always better at game theory than the game itself.”

“You have some kind of club foot I can’t see?” Harvey jokes and Mike wants it to sound like flirting so much he nearly lets himself think it is.

“No,” he says, shifting in his seat, “it’s just not where I want to be - on the field. Like,” he ejects the tape and reaches for another. It’s already queued up to this other pitcher he’s been eyeing. “Look at this.”

He watches Harvey watch the screen. A lanky man in an Oakland A’s uniform throws so underhanded, his knuckles nearly scrape the ground. “They’re calling it submariner,” Mike says with a laugh, “because underhanded isn’t manly enough for baseball.”

“What does this-“

“This guy,” he points as another pitch is thrown, “He loves to play baseball. Just like Mercir and his clubfoot. These guys have adapted to the game, they’ve persisted when every other person in their position would have listened to all the coaches and scouts telling them to give it up and go home.”

Harvey summarises. “So you love the guys who love the game.”

“No,” Mike laughs with a quick laugh. “I love these guys because I can afford them.”

Shit. That came out wrong.

Harvey raises a brow.

“I don't love them. I'm not like- not that there’s anything wrong with that!" His cheeks are on fire and mouth is still moving and he’s rambling and oh god, he doesn’t know where the brakes are. He has no idea what he’s saying and Jesus Christ if he pisses off the one out player in the major leagues he will actually die of embarrassment right here and now. He forces in one hell of a steadying breath, takes his lip between his teeth and bites hard enough to force his brain to reboot.

“I just like the challenge,” he says, finally finding his way back down to earth. “Seeing what other people don’t.”

Harvey’s eyes are still on him and Mike’s bracing so hard for whatever he’s about to say that he’s nearly wincing.

“What’s his problem?” Harvey asks after a minute, nodding to another tape on the shelf with the name Justice written on it.

Mike exhales for the first time in what feels like five minutes.

A nervous laugh. “Same as you even without your busted shoulder. He's 36.” Then he clocks the look on Harvey’s face, the way that brow quirks up, how his lip tugs down. Fucking hell. Why can't he say anything right in front of this guy?

“Ouch,” Harvey covers real pain with performative.

“No," Mike says quickly, trying to undo the damage. "It’s just the average guy hits their prime in their late twenties. Once they hit your age? According to everyone else in the league... they're, like, guilty until proven innocent.”

Harvey’s face darkens slightly, like he knew it was true, but no one’s ever laid it out for him so bluntly.

Fuck.

Fuck.

“These teams with all the money,” he continues, trying to save this disaster of a conversation, “they use it to buy power hitters, guys at their peak. You throw enough cash at something you can usually bank on good results.”

Harvey nods, but doesn’t interject.

“Don’t get me wrong, if I had the money I’d stack a few all-stars on the roster, but I don’t, so…”

Stop.

This isn't what Harvey wants to hear. No one wants to hear that they're a playable pawn, a walking price tag, least of all from someone like him. He takes a deep breath, recalibrates. 

“I guess my point is, when it’s David vs Goliath, what’s the fun in cheering for the monster, when what everyone really loves is the underdog?”

He expects Harvey’s eyes on him when he finally lifts his own back up off his lap. But instead they’re on the photo of Mike and his grandmother… the one where he’s got his arm around his ex-fucking-boyfriend.

“That’s, uh…” Mike stutters, reaching for the frame, knocking it over the process. Shit. “That’s me and my Grammy…” His mouth is already gearing up for another epic run.

“And I’m guessing that’s not your brother?” Harvey asks, amused but a little more detached than he was a minute ago.

“No,” Mike says too quickly. “No brothers. Or sisters. Only child. But he's, um- he’s my-”

“Mike,” Harvey says, sounding almost sad. “I’m not judging you.”

“No, I know! He’s just my ex! We are not together anymore. I don't even know why I have that here. Seriously.” There’s an awkward laugh Mike will replay later and hate himself for. “I’m single. Very, very single.”

For a second Harvey seems taken aback by the force of the statement. But then his mouth lifts with a hint of a smile. He nods, “Good to know.”

“Yeah,” Mike sighs as he sinks into his seat, starts to think about where he can buy a shovel because he's 100% certain he’s going to die of embarrassment.

“So am I,” Harvey adds with casual nod, “For the record.”

Mike’s self pity does a stutter step. He swallows. If this were any other guy in any other setting, he’d be trying to run the odds of polite conversation vs subtle flirting, but this is Harvey Specter, and the odds have too many decimal points for him to sink any real energy into… though he’d be lying if there isn’t something he’s been wanting to ask for a while now.

“How’s that going, by the way? The whole headlines thing, I mean - I don’t need like, details about your dating life...”

Harvey’s face shifts again.

Mike bites at his lip.

“It’s not the legacy I want to leave,” Harvey says eventually. “Who I go to bed with shouldn’t even matter, but after 12 years in the league and everything I’ve accomplished, it’s the only thing anyone wants to talk about anymore.”

“Sorry,” Mike says, meaning his own question and the bullshit in general. But then he realises something. “Is that why you took my offer?”

“Maybe,” Harvey admits. A loaded beat passes, he fixes his gaze on Mike. “You think we have a chance this season? Go all the way?”

Mike’s run the numbers a hundred times, but there’s something about the moment that has him sidelining the hard facts in favor of something softer. “The odds are never zero,” he says, looking into those dark eyes that make him feel weightless. “That’s why we play the game.”

Chapter Text

It’s a stupid crush, Harvey tells himself over and over. It’ll pass.

But it doesn’t.

There’s something about Mike Ross that he can’t shake, can’t help but flirt with whenever they’re alone.

Harvey’s always prided himself on reading people, but it turns out that mostly applies to batters. Mike’s either not interested, too professional to engage, or too oblivious for his own good. It’s probably for the best, though. Pushing the buttons of the guy who can trade you away with a phone call probably isn’t the one to start a mid-season fling with…

…and it's definitely not a good idea after the team gets swept in Toronto and nose dives into a one hell of a losing streak.

Mike becomes scarce. There are a few weeks where Harvey only catches glimpses of him in passing. He stops coming out to hit grounders, stops asking Harvey his thoughts on pitchers, stops smiling. Mike used to jog through the halls like a golden retriever, but now he stays in his office, door closed, lights on well after quitting time.

Harvey thinks about knocking. He knows what it’s like to be young with a whole league’s worth of pressure of your shoulders. But he overhears some of the other players talking about how this is how Mike gets before going on a rampage.

“What’s a rampage look like?” Harvey asks, packing up in the locker room after another late night loss.

The two players trade a look. “That guy is savage,” one says.

The other nods. “He’ll cut half this team without flinching.”

Harvey chalks it up to hyperbole. Because A) cutting half a roster in the middle of a season is insane, and B) the worn out look on Mike’s face when he does see it doesn’t read comic book villain, it reads exhaustion.

But by mid-May the Mets are 21-26, and the rampage begins.

There are so many changes in the lineup Harvey can barely keep them straight. He calls Donna a few times to get her read on the situation, but she doesn't offer much insight. Besides, there's still half a season left on his contract and the way the game works, the Mets have the right to trade him off to anyone who's willing to take him, so there's not much she can do. Getting traded would mean having to leave New York for the first time in years, but Harvey's on the road so much already and half a season hardly makes a difference. Besides, everyone knows you can't really put down roots until you retire from the major leagues. And yet, he can't fully stop worrying about it because of that one other factor he's trying not to own up to. The one with the blue eyes and scruffy blond hair who can quote baseball statistics like he's reciting the alphabet.

Mike Ross is unlike anyone he's ever met. The way he sees the game, the players. He's got this Spock-like level of objectivity where every other old school manager would be following his gut, or some silly superstition. The one thing Donna was able to find out about him from her agency rumor mill? That there are teams that are actually afraid to trade with Mike Ross because he's so good at what he does. This fact does absolutely nothing to help Harvey mitigate his crush. No, it actually makes it worse.

By the end of Mike's weeklong trading frenzy a full third of the starting 8 have either been shipped off or sent down to the minors, including everyone's favorite future all-star: Kyle Durant. But Harvey doesn't have much time to be shocked (and he's plenty shocked), because the Mets finally need him to do the thing they signed him to do: play first base.

His first game is a disaster. A line drive bounces out of his glove and shakes his confidence for the rest of the night. There's a foul ball that should've been an out, but he's so far from the mark by the time it comes down it doesn't even count as an error. And with 2 outs in the top of the 8th his back foot misses the bag by a full inch and the runner is safe. The next batter hits it clear over the left outfield, and the Mets can't make up the runs. White Sox 5 - Mets 4. The losing streak continues.

Harvey spends an extra five minutes under the shower after the game mentally packing up his locker. Mike's going to trade him for sure now. And the DH slot is gone now so it doesn't matter if he can draw a walk better than any guy out here, without a position for him to play, he doesn't have any value. Not even for the pathetic salary of $750,000 a season.

Harvey's the last one out of the locker room that night. This had been his last shot at a few more years in the game, and he blew it in nine goddamn innings. If there are any press lingering in the halls at least he can finally use Donna's favorite two words: No comment.

But when he steps out of the locker room, there are no straggling reporters looking to capitalize on a burned out star. There's just the one person he hasn't been this to close in weeks.

Mike.

There's a split second of elation before Harvey remembers why the kid's here. This is it. He's being traded.

He takes a breath, walks closer. He's ready to say thanks for the chance, to shake hands. Tries not to dwell on the fact that the first time he'll get to touch the kid is to say goodbye.

"Hell of a game," Mike says without a trace of sarcasm.

Harvey stops in his tracks. His puzzlement must be obvious because Mike's trying not to smirk and it's the most kissable Harvey's ever seen him.

"You still don't get it, do you?" Mike gives up trying to hide the smile and it feels like the opposite of a gut punch, whatever that is. "Yeah, look, Louis is going to fucking tear you apart in practice the next few weeks, but you dragged out your at-bats, made Garcia throw an extra twelve pitches tonight. Most other batters would've saved him the trouble by hacking away at that low outside fastball he loves so much."

Harvey's trying to follow the logic, and he does, but his at bats were only part of his performance - and not the most important one. "We lost tonight because of me."

Mike shrugs. Shrugs! "To make the playoffs we only have to win 96 games, which means we can lose up to 66. This was just one of those."

Harvey nearly points out that they're on track to be the worst team in the league if they lose the next three games as easily as they did tonight, and with him at first that's all but guaranteed.

"Why'd you trade Durant?" It comes out sounding more accusatory than Harvey means it, but he can't take it back.

Mike shifts on his feet, bites at his bottom lip for a second. "I got a good price," he says with a lopsided shrug. "That's how this works. Buy low, sell high."

Harvey nods, solemn. He gets it now. There are no buyers for guys like him. He can't pitch. He can barely play first fucking base. His only skill is drawing out his at bats and getting walked to first and the only guy in the majors who values that particular skill is standing right in front of him. The same guy who will send him away the second the math changes.

He heads off toward the door, head lowered.

What a way to end a career.

Mike's never been good at pep talks. That had been his intent a few weeks ago when he saw Harvey after his first game at first base. But the guy walked away looking somehow more defeated than he did at the beginning of the conversation and has practically avoided him ever since. This is why Mike prefers numbers to people. People have too many variables. They're impossible to predict. Case in point: Jessica Pearson.

For the most part she leaves him to run the team how he wants to. She won the team in some divorce proceedings and hiring Mike at been one of her first moves as the new owner. There'd been rumors back then that she was intentionally trying to run the team into the ground out of spite, but that's another story.

Today she's called Mike into her office to discuss the one thing he really doesn't want to discuss for a whole host of reasons…

“Why is Specter still on my team?” Jessica asks before Mike’s even crossed the threshold. “We discussed this.”

“Technically, you and Louis discussed it,” he says, keeping a sofa between them like a shield. “I just didn’t disagree with you.”

Her eyes narrow. There’s a smile that’s really a warning. “I’m sick of hearing his name in my office.”

Which means she’s sick of Louis’s endless ability to bitch about things…

“I’ll make it go away,” he says without saying how. If he needs Louis to shut up there’s only one way to do it and keep Harvey around: the dude needs to stop sucking at infield.

“Good,” she says, but the way she’s still eying him means she knows he’s playing an angle, she’s just not sure what. “I’m considering this matter closed.”

Mike nods, pushes off the sofa and heads for the door.

“And for the record,” she says, stopping him in his tracks, “Louis said he was actually improving in practice until he starting seeing real game time.”

Mike cheats a look back. Is she try to… help?

“Thanks…” he says, cautiously, then resumes his exit, makes a beeline to the field to watch the day’s practice.

He takes a seat in the stands, and immediately doesn’t like what he sees.

Harvey's regressed. He looks like the guy from spring training. His feet keep tangling. He can’t read the ball to save his life. Louis’s face is as red as baseball stitching he’s yelling so much.

Jesus Christ.

The last thirty painful minutes of practice pass at an agonizingly slow rate. What the hell changed? Game time should have solidified Harvey’s progress, not undone it, and yet he only other variable between then and now is… shit.

It's him.

Mike’s the variable.

The extra practice time. The hours spent watching game tape. He scrambles for any other explanation but that’s the only other thing that’s changed.

The second practice wraps, Mike strolls onto the field. Harvey immediately clocks him, his jaw sets, like he’s bracing himself for more of Louis's style of berating. But that’s not why Mike’s here.

“Got a minute?” Mike asks, picking up a spare glove from the grass.

Harvey’s eyes narrow with a question he doesn’t ask. “Sure.”

Mike scoops up a baseball, gives it a friendly toss in the air before lobbing it at Harvey. “Cool,” he says, like he has absolutely no agenda here, “I could use a break.”

Harvey catches the ball easily. That’s the catch he can make in his sleep. A friendly toss from a catcher to a pitcher. It’s only every single other one of the potential throws they have to work on. No big deal.

They spread out on the field, the ball sailing between them, without a word spoken. Mike just observes his player as he relaxes, throw after throw, catch after catch. Until it feels like breathing.

Guys like Harvey are what the old school scouts would call a “Good Face” - meaning nothing except he literally looks like a baseball player, good form, good fitness. Guys like Harvey don’t usually end up on teams like Mike’s when they’re young. It doesn’t take any imagination to see the potential. The flip side is that guys like Harvey have never had to want it like some of Mike’s other prospects. They’ve never had to shut the Louis Litts out and play their asses off to spite guys like him.

“Why are you here, Harvey?” The question’s innocent enough, Mike doesn’t put too much of a point on it, but Harvey’s shoulders tense in a way that says he’s been asking himself the same question lately.

The ball is tossed back with some pitcher’s heat. “You tell me.”

Mike shakes the sting from his glove hand. “I can tell you why I want you on this team,” he says, throwing the ball back. “But I hope to hell you’ve got another reason to keep you here.”

Harvey nearly fumbles the catch and suddenly he’s right back on his back foot, so deep in his head Mike can only wonder what he’s thinking. He can practically see Harvey’s walls sliding up in real time.

“Why 18?” he tries. “You could pick any number under 99, but you’ve always been 18.”

“My dad,” Harvey says after a moment’s consideration, throwing that heat again.

“He still watch you play?” Mike tosses it back, intentionally a little off the mark so Harvey has to step to snag it.

“He died,” Harvey says, throwing the ball too hard, sending it high over Mike’s head.

Mike is too stunned by what was just said to make a play for it.

A decision is made as he walks to retrieve the ball, comes back to his starting point. It’s not something he ever talks about, but…

“My parents died when I was 11," he says, throwing a grounder on purpose. “Drunk driver.”

Harvey doesn’t even try to make a catch, he stops the ball with his foot, his focus trained on Mike like a sniper. Mike nods for their game to resume, but Harvey doesn’t move.

“Why are you here?” Harvey levels.

“I told you,” Mike shrugs, “my grandfather-“

“No,” Harvey cuts him off. “Not baseball. Here. With me. Right now.”

Mike’s eyes dart to the grass. He flexes his hand in the glove.

“If you’re going to cut me, just do it already.”

Mike’s head snaps back up. “Are you fucking serious? I’m not here to cut you!”

Harvey’s expression calls him liar. The guy actually rolls his eyes and storms off toward the dugout.

Mike follows. Because what the actual hell?

It doesn't take much to catch up. Harvey's storming is more about proving a point, being angry, than gaining actual distance. But the second Mike steps down into the dugout, Harvey turns on his heel and shoves him up against the wall. There's no hesitation. Harvey just crashes all the way in. Until they're chest to chest. And suddenly they're kissing.

Mike's too stunned to do anything other than slam his eyes closed and kiss back. He has no idea where his hands are or what he should do with them when he finds them. His feet have lost contact with the ground.

Harvey, on the other hand, seems to know exactly what to do. His hands are under Mike's shirt, strong palms slipping over the sensitive ridges of his hipbones, gripping his back, pulling him tighter.

Mike's brain devolves into a horny fog of static. He knows his blood is rushing south and not much else. Harvey grinds closer, one hand suddenly at the collar of his shirt, stretching the fabric away from his skin and for his mouth to claim before he crowds in even closer, close enough to feel the swelling Mike wishes he could find some way to hide.

Mike barely bites back a moan before they're kissing again, all heat and mess and urgency until Harvey slows, then pauses, both hands now clasping the back of Mike's neck. He lands their foreheads together, in no rush to separate enough to make any sort of eye contact, to introduce the inevitable aftermath.

Mike licks his stunned lips. Finds the breath to ask, “What was that for?”

“You wanted to why I’m here,” Harvey says, voice rough and weighted. “That’s why.”

Mike watches Harvey's pulse hammer along the side of his throat. Watches until he's sure he's not dreaming, that this isn't some sick joke. Then he nudges Harvey's head towards a better angle, and picks up where they left off.

Chapter Text

The Mets' new roster finds their footing. Harvey finds his rhythm at first base, finally stops spending every day worried about being traded.

By the time summer gets underway the team has gone from 20-27 to 61-39 and they're only two games behind the Phillies in an unusually strong NL East. In other words, the team is on pace to make the playoffs for the first time in eight years.

Harvey figures that Mike would be happy about this. Or at least relax in some way. But he isn’t. And he doesn't. It takes a couple days before Harvey figures out why. It's mid-July. Which means the trade deadline's approaching. Which means Mike can't look at him like the guy he spontaneously made out with in the dugout that one time. Mike has to look at him like figures on a spreadsheet. Buy low. Sell high.

The kid still comes out to play catch or hit for him when his schedule allows for it, though it happens less and less. They talk about baseball, family (or lack thereof), movies. It turns out they can both quote the Godfather until well after midnight, which is when the sprinklers turn on. They don't talk about the time they kissed, or relationships, or how part of Harvey aches every time Mike leaves without hesitating, without looking back, without scuffing his shoe in the grass and asking Want to grab a drink?

Again, Harvey tells himself it's for the best. Mike’s made it clear he’s not interested in him that way and getting in any deeper with him will only make it that much harder when he inevitably gets traded off for some younger version of himself. His best and only course of action is to keep playing his position the best he can, and hope it's enough. He doesn't breathe a word about of any of this to Donna.

She calls him on it anyway.

"Your boy's fishing," Donna says, eyeing Harvey for his reaction.

They're at an upscale seafood place on the lower east side she likes to break bad news at. Harvey's kept one foot hooked around a chair leg since he sat down.

"He's not my boy,” he says absently. But then Donna smiles and Harvey realizes he just took the bait. He pivots. "What do you mean 'fishing'?"

"He's looking for a Fucking-A trade," she says. There's a smugness in the way she skewers some vegetables onto her fork. "He's using a few names to chum the water, see who's willing to deal."

Harvey swallows, wishes his glass of whisky wasn't empty, that he didn't have a game tomorrow and could order another double. "Guessing I'm one of them."

His agent studies him for a moment. "No," she says eventually, "you're actually not."

Relief sinks his shoulders, but it's temporary. "So why are you bringing it up?"

"I want to know how you want me to play it when the Mets offer you an extension," she says.

"They haven't offered me an extension." The statement is so cautious it sounds like a question.

"No," she says, and his face falls slightly, "but they will. I told you when we first started working together: I don't speculate, I anticipate. And there are some things I just know. This is one of them."

His eyes narrow slightly. There’s something she’s not telling him. "And what do you just know?"

Donna's smile flickers. Busted. "That GMs who play catch after hours with their first baseman will probably find a reason to keep him around."

Goddamn it. "How the hell..."

"People talk, Harvey. I listen. Look, it's no big deal. If anything, it's borderline adorable and-"

"It doesn't matter," Harvey says bluntly, really wishing he had that second drink to reach for. "Mike's not like that. He's different. He's analytical. He's all about the numbers with him and the second my numbers don't add up, he won't hesitate to pull the trigger."

Donna's brow quirks up. "You make it sound like he's going to shoot Old Yeller."

Harvey reaches for a distraction. “What’s a Fucking A trade?”

“A Fucking A trade,” she says setting her fork down in favor of her wine glass, “is something Mike Ross has become a bit of a legend for in the league. It’s when he makes a trade so good it leaves the rest of the teams scratching their heads going, Fucking A…”

This information inexplicably sets Harvey’s blood on fire. He shifts in his seat, suddenly aware of where said blood has decided to rush and this isn’t the time, nor the place, nor the company.

He can feel Donna cataloging his reaction. His cheeks heat to burning.

She states the obvious. “You really like him.”

Harvey squares his shoulders, catches the eye of a passing waiter and points to his empty glass.

His flat intonation begs her once again to drop it. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters,” she says, blurring the line between agent and friend, “because when the Mets offer you an extension and I have other options in play, I need to know if you want to stay in New York, or if you want me to follow the money.”

They’ve spent his whole career chasing points on his contract. But now it feels like a fool’s errand. What other team will see value in him like Mike does? And even if they did, would he really want to leave?

Harvey shakes his head. It’s all questions, no answers.

“I don’t know yet,” he says as his whisky lands. “Ask me when we get there- if we get there.”

She raises her glass to toast. “To the road ahead.”

The benefit of being the youngest GM in league history was that no one took Mike seriously when he first started. The other teams were happy to trade him their table scraps… until they saw what he did with them. Nowadays, getting a Fucking A trade takes a hell of a lot more work. But Mike still loves every minute of it.

There's a short list of guys he wants and an even shorter list of guys every other team is drooling over. Any team with a prayer of making the playoffs is looking to bolster their roster with something proven, something that they won't get torn apart for in the papers, an answer to every fan's prayers. It changes slightly, year to year, but this year all the rich teams have zeroed in on a third baseman on the Montreal Expos who has suddenly decided he was going to become an unstoppable hitting machine: Jimmy Kirkwood.

Mike doesn't have a prayer of getting Jimmy Kirkwood in a Mets uniform. He can't even afford the $2.4 million left on his contract and besides, the almighty Boston Red Sox have, in no uncertain terms, already laid claim to him. But Mike still makes an offer for Jimmy so that Elliot Stemple, the bow-tied interim GM of the Montreal Expos, will have to talk to him.

"Stemp," he says, because everyone in baseball with a name longer than one syllable ends up with a nickname sooner or later. "How's-"

But he gets cut off. Guys like Stemple have been warned about him. "We're nearly signed with Boston. Just calling you back to let you know."

"That's great," Mike says excitedly, and he can feel the wariness those two words generate through the phone lines. "Who are you getting for him?"

Stemple doesn't know how to not answer a direct question. He tells Mike the Red Sox have agreed to cover the $2.4 million, that he's getting his pick of their major and minor league players, and besides, according to Kirkwood's agent, the guy really wants to play for Boston. 

Of course he does, Mike thinks, they'll overpay the hell out of him when he becomes a free agent at the end of the season.

"Who are you going to pick?" Mike asks.

"Arrojo and Song," Stemple replies with minor hesitation.

Mike lets a silence stretch. "You really want to do that, Stemp? You really like Arrojo that much?" He's a concerned friend now.

It takes a full twenty seconds for Stemple to start apologising for his interest in Rolando Arrojo.

"And who's this other guy?" Mike asks like he's trying to help here. "Song? You like him, too?"

Elliot Stemple suddenly doesn't know how to like anything without Mike's approval.

"Look," Mike says. He's going to take care of this, Stemple, don't worry. "If you're going to send Kirkwood to Boston, why not send him through me? I'll throw in one of my players, your pick - I mean, within reason, you know how it is - and you can let me deal with the Red Sox."

The Boston press has already been chomping at the bit for Jimmy Kirkwood. The Red Sox have one problem that Mike will never have to deal with: the fanatic fans of Fenway Park. If the fans think they're getting Kirkwood, they damn well better get him, or there will be hell to pay. And Mike knows exactly how to use this to his advantage.

Stemple hesitates. He's been in over his head his entire tenure in the major leagues. He says it sounds too complicated. He doesn't want to mess up his deal.

"Okay, Stemp, listen. You call them back and tell them you want Carter Bennett or no deal. And then hang up. He's nobody. He's just a Double-A third baseman with a bad body."

Stemple may be in over his head, but he's also not a complete idiot. "So why are you going through this much trouble to get him?"

"Bennett?" Mike asks like he's already forgotten the name, like How important could he be? "Look at your reports. He's a 'no' for you, he's a 'maybe' for me."

"I don't want-"

"Stemp." They're back to being friends again. "The Red Sox aren't going to let some no name from Double-A get in the way of signing Jimmy Kirkwood. Trust me. Just call them, say you want Bennett or no deal, and hang up."

Bennett may be a nobody to everyone else in the league, but the kid has an uncanny ability to wear out opposing pitchers and get on base. He has that invaluable yet unteachable quality when he's at the plate: patience.

Stemple says he'll do it and Mike punches his fist in the air. He looks around the room to celebrate with someone, but it’s empty. "Call me when it's done," he says, and hangs up.

He looks at the clock. It's late. Later than he realised. The stadium's quiet in a way that suddenly feels loud. Quiet in a way that makes his head feel crowded - that has him feeling incredibly alone.

He looks back at the phone. He loves this part of the job - trading ball players like he's playing some combination of poker and 3-card monty. The problem is, the victories he's had this week haven't felt the same as they have in years past. There’s no buzz, there’s just a temporary reprieve from the relentless question of What else? What else can he be doing to squeeze the most out of the opportunities his pathetic budget will afford him? What angle is he not seeing? What if he tried this? Or that? Or any one of 142 other things? And when he turns around to share the burden of all that with someone, there’s no one there except a handful of old school baseball men in their worn out shirts with their worn out attitudes, who only listen to Mike because he’s the GM and they’re not. Sure, they’ve seen him get results before, and maybe they even respect him, but any one of them would take his job in a heartbeat and go right back to managing the Mets the way every other team in the league is managed: wrong.

Mike should go home, or at least out, find somewhere to give his mind a break. But even that feels like work right now. He finds himself wondering where Harvey is on a night like this. What he’s doing. Who he’s with.

He packs up. Wanders toward the dugout, the scene of the crime, and sits. Alone. Replays that moment for the millionth time. Stares at the wall for evidence of the way Harvey pressed him against it. It was almost too good to be real. The kiss. Honestly, he's still not fully convinced it wasn't some sort of vivid hallucination.

The next day Mike hadn't known how to act. He’d just wanted to be normal, not make an idiot of himself. So that's what he did. He acted normal. Like the kiss had never happened. Normal. Like it was any other day. Because to acknowledge the kiss would change everything and everything changing was too much to deal with. Besides, it's not like Harvey meant what he said, that Mike's the reason he's still here. Guys like Harvey have options, more options than guys like Mike would even know what to do with, and guys who have choices never choose him. Harvey was just being nice. Or worse, trying to keep himself in the major leagues by any means necessary.

Mike scruffs his heel into the floor of the dugout. He knows he needs to stop doing this, stop coming here to fixate on the one kiss that will probably never amount to anything, never be repeated. But he can't help it. It's like some math problem he hasn't quite solved. His brain keeps insisting that the answer is right in front of him, but his heart is shouting there's still some unknown he hasn't accounted for, something he doesn't know how to fit into his otherwise clean equation. If only he could name it, maybe then he could solve it, put this whole thing to rest once and for all. Maybe.

Chapter Text

Mike may be scarce, but Harvey can at least bank on seeing him after a game. No matter how good or bad he plays, Mike will be there when they come in from the field, catch his eye and nod. He'll say something like Good hands, Good game, Good patience at the plate. It's something Harvey's come to look forward to as the innings wind down. Win or lose, in a few minutes, he'll get his moment with Mike.

It's late in the season. A home game. They get an early lead against the Marlins and don't let it go. The sportscasters had predicted a loss for the Mets and Harvey practically trots toward the locker room so he can see the smirk on Mike's face. The kid always loves it when they beat the odds. But when he turns the corner, Mike's not there. At first he thinks maybe he's just early, but the rest of the team files past him, into the locker room, and there's still no sign of Mike.

"Louis," Harvey says as he reluctantly leaves his post, "you seen Mike?"

For a second Louis looks like he's going to be helpful, but then his face shifts into a sarcastic snarl. "Do I look like boy wonder's babysitter to you?"

Harvey's next call is to Donna.

"You know you have to wait 24 hours before filing a missing person's report," she teases.

He's pacing one of the halls near the locker room, the click of his field spikes echo as he walks. "Are you going to help me or not?"

"Relax," she says. "I'll put some feelers out. Go shower, I bet you stink."

Harvey sighs. "Fine. Call me the second you hear anything."

It's midnight when he gets a text from Donna, but all it says is Go to sleep.

He goes to the field the next day. Still no Mike. Still no word from Donna. He's doing his pre-game warm ups trying to talk his mind back off a cliff, wishing there was some clever way to get Mike’s number from the front office and call him, make sure he’s okay even though he’s probably fine. Maybe he has a cold. Or maybe he's off scouting some Double-A player with one arm. Or giving a lecture on statistics at Harvard.

The next game ends with another win, but there's still no Mike outside the locker room and none of the other players even seem to notice. Harvey showers, changes into his street clothes, and calls Donna again.

This time, she has answers.

"His grandmother passed away," she tells him with a hint of remorse. "The services are tomorrow."

Harvey hasn't been to a funeral since his father died. He'd been to funerals before that, for his grandparents, but he's never been to a funeral he's only connected to by proxy. And yet, he doesn't hesitate. "Send me the details."

It's just before 10am when he arrives at the church. The sky is cast iron grey. Fat raindrops splash onto warm pavement with an audible slap.

It feels strange to be in a suit outside of an event with photographers and a step and repeat. Harvey fusses with his tie for the hundredth time, tries to center the knot over his collar.

He's nearly to the door when it flies open and Mike, mid-escape, stops dead in his tracks.

There's a moment where Harvey feels like he's made a horrible mistake, coming here when it was so obvious the kid didn't want anyone from the team to know. But then Mike's shoulders slump, the door closes behind him, and he walks closer.

"This how you spend your downtime?" Mike asks, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Cruising funerals before games?"

Harvey shrugs, relieved. "We all have our hobbies."

A small smile breaks and it makes Harvey's heart swell. "How'd you find out?"

"I have my sources."

Mike nods. His smile fades. Chews at his lip, then looks up at the clouds. "I'm supposed to give her eulogy, but I can't..."

Harvey doesn’t know what to say so he waits, patient.

A moment later, Mike's eyes find him again. The bright blue's gone as grey as the sky above them. "After my parents... I knew I'd have to do this one day. I knew she wouldn't live forever, I just..." His next breath has a stutter. "I wasn't ready."

Raindrops pelt their shoulders.

"I don't think we're ever really ready to lose the people we love."

Mike nods again. It's hard to tell if it's tears falling or rain landing on his cheeks. "I know," he says, kicking at a piece of gravel on the pavement. "I just… I don't know what I'm supposed to say. I was up all night trying to write something, but it all sounded like shit and I probably shouldn't be saying 'shit' on holy ground, but I'm probably going to hell anyway, so fuck it, right?"

"I don't think parking lots count as holy ground," Harvey says, trying to lighten the load.

"Sorry," Mike says with a sniffle and an embarrassed groan. "You really don't have to do this."

"Do what?"

"Be here."

Harvey's head tilts ever so slightly. "Are you serious?"

"I'm sure you have, like, a hundred other things you'd rather be doing than getting rained on in a fucking church parking lot and listening to me word vomit."

Harvey studies the young man before him. He'd been wrong before. After the kiss. He'd assumed Mike's behavior, the way he'd pulled back, was because Mike just wasn't interested in him. But that's not it at all. No, it's the opposite. Mike doesn't believe Harvey's serious, and that he can fix. Is going to fix. Immediately.

"I'm going to go inside and grab a seat," he says, holding Mike's gaze. Those eyes he's learning to read so well have gone red and glassy. "When you get up there, just talk about why you loved her, make a joke if you can. And if you get stuck, find me in the audience. Pretend it's just us, playing catch. Tell me a story about her."

Mike's looking at him like this is a poker match and he's looking for tells. Eventually he swallows hard, nods. "Yeah, okay."

The sky rumbles overhead.

Harvey steps in, rests a hand on Mike's shoulder, squeezes, and slides it up to the back of his neck. His thumb drifts along the soft skin behind Mike's ear. "You got this. I promise."

Mike nods again, like he's psyching himself up, then steps in and wraps his arms around Harvey. The hug is warm and tight. "Thank you."

Mike wades through the funeral in a grief-fueled fog. He's vaguely aware of what's being said and by whom. When it's his turn to speak, he zeroes in on Harvey in the mostly-empty pews and does his best to tell him about the life of Edith Ross and how the world won't be the same without her. The words come, but he's barely aware of them. Harvey's face remains calm and attentive, though, so at least he's not screwing this up too badly.

The services finish as swiftly as Catholic tradition will allow. Mike shakes hands with every person who came to pay their respects even though he doesn't know who half of them are. Harvey's the last to leave, except he isn't leaving.

"Rain delay," he explains, sitting on the back of the last row of pews. "They're probably going to cancel the game."

Mike nods, his head's still swimming. "Makes sense."

Harvey's eyes are on him, but Mike doesn't know what to do with himself. He feels so exposed, so lost in his own skin.

"Come on," Harvey says, getting up. A warm hand lands on his shoulder. "Let's get you home."

They're pulling up outside Mike's building half an hour later. Harvey parks the car, like he's coming inside and not just dropping him off. Raindrops slap against the windshield. 

"You don't have to," Mike says. His mouth is on autopilot along with the rest of him.

"Would you rather be alone right now?"

He takes a second to chew on the question, then shakes his head. "No."

"Alright then."

It's strange having Harvey in his apartment. No one from the team has ever set foot here. Mike's always felt like he should keep his two worlds separated, but Harvey's been blurring that line since the day they met, and without his grandmother, he doesn’t even know what his life outside baseball looks like anymore.

"Nice place," Harvey says, hanging up his suit jacket by the door, pulling his tie loose.

"I bought it for her," Mike says absently. "My grandmother."

Harvey mutters something that sounds an awful lot like Shit. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. She got to live here for a few years before she needed more care. I didn't have the heart to sell it or the stomach to let anyone else move in, so I did."

“That explains the art,” Harvey says, nodding to Mike’s favourite embroidered panda hung above the fireplace.

“I actually made that,” he deadpans.

There's a split second where Harvey nearly believes him. “A man of many talents. I respect that.”

Mike drops himself onto the couch, toes off his shoes. "There's beer in the fridge," he says with a nod toward the kitchen.

Harvey goes to investigate, comes back with two cans of IPA. "Not much else in there."

"Yeah, I don't really cook. Or have people over..."

Harvey nods like he gets it, takes a seat on the other side of the sofa. "So now you know what I do with my downtime, I think it's only fair you tell me what you get up to when you're not fishing for Fucking A trades."

Mike smirks despite himself. He cracks open his beer, leans into his seat. "You're looking at it."

Harvey smiles, sips his drink.

A silence stretches and Mike doesn’t know how to break it. He memorizes the fine print on the beer can instead of making eye contact.

“What would you be doing if I wasn't here?”

“Probably order a pizza, get stoned, and watch a movie,” Mike answers before he can think better of it.

“Fine," Harvey says, already reaching for his phone. "But I'm picking the toppings. Something tells me you're a Hawaiian guy and I can't do the whole pineapple thing.”

“Harvey-"

“Mike. Stop. You’ve been there for me all season. Consider this me paying you back, since apparently you can’t just accept that I want to do the same for you.”

Mike has to physically bite back another You don’t have to and holy shit... This is what he does, isn't it? He pushes people away when he needs them most. It was easier to lie to himself when he could pretend he didn't need the other person, that he had Grammy and that was enough. But now... maybe it's time he starts learning how to trust someone else.

Hours later, Mike's stomach is full, his head is fuzzy, and Return of the Jedi is playing on the tv. Harvey's kicked his feet up onto the coffee table. The whole scene is surreal. Harvey Specter, best closer in the game, is stoned on his couch, choosing to spend a rare free afternoon with him instead of literally anything else New York has to offer.

"You're staring," Harvey says, unable to hold back a smirk.

Harvey Specter is gorgeous at baseline. But Harvey Specter stoned and smiley is a beauty Mike never knew existed.

"I can't help it," Mike says, mouth getting ahead of his brain again. And then his body is suddenly involved, is closing the gap between them, and Mike Ross does the boldest thing he's ever done outside of getting Jessica Pearson to take a bet on him: he kisses Harvey Specter.

Harvey sinks back as Mike presses his weight down. The kiss deepens, heats. Mike's circulatory system picks up the momentum. Harvey's hands are on his face, then his shoulders, his chest. And then Harvey's pulling back, and those hands are pushing him away. Gently, but unmistakably, away.

Harvey looks at him, and there's a mischievous light in his eyes Mike could seriously get used to. But as quickly as it appears, it vanishes, and Harvey's face is sobering up way too quickly.

"What?" Mike asks, panic welling. Had he seriously misread this that badly?

Harvey only shakes his head. There's a flicker of a false smile. "Nothing. I just don't want to ruin a good thing."

Mike's face twists into a question mark.

"Today's been a lot," Harvey continues like he can read his mind. "You've been through a lot. I don't think we need to complicate this by doing anything more than we were already doing."

Mike's body gets the memo. His blood rushes back into his brain and he can feel an embarrassed flush rising from his neck. He slinks back to his side of the sofa, "Yeah, no. You're totally right."

If this were Harvey's place he could leave right now, run for the door. But he's already home so if the couch could just open up and swallow him alive right now that would be great.

He lasers his attention back on the movie until Harvey kicks a playful foot into his hip.

"I'm not saying no," Harvey says, "I'm just saying not right now. Got it?"

Mike nods even though part of him still doesn't believe any of this is real. Even though, if that belief was ever proven, it would break his heart beyond repair.

"Got it."

Chapter Text

After the day of the funeral Mike goes right back to keeping his distance and Harvey's left to wonder what the hell he did wrong. He even catches him alone one night, but the only thing Mike says is that he's "working on it" and what the hell is that supposed to mean?

Then, a few days later, the answer comes loud and clear. It's Donna who calls and tells him the news: the Mets have put him on a waiver.

"It could be worse," she says. "They could’ve put you on assignment."

And sure, getting dropped from the roster entirely would be worse, but honestly? Just having to hear that he's no longer wanted from Donna instead of Mike makes the whole situation nothing short of unbearable. And insult to injury? He’s actually played well the last few months! Louis even told him he was decent. Decent! From Louis Litt that’s practically the equivalent of a marriage proposal.

“There’s still a chance someone picks you up,” she says right before he hangs up. “Don’t lose hope yet.”

Harvey couldn't even reply if he wanted to. There's an invisible hand around his throat and his heart's in a goddamn free fall. He spends about ten seconds pacing around his apartment before he heads out in search of someplace he can drink and drown the dramatic feeling that he’s doomed to be completely and totally alone for the rest of his goddamn life.

Hope's all that kept him going this season. When baseball wasn't going well at least he had Mike, and when he didn't have Mike at least he had baseball. But now he's losing both in one fell swoop and it hurts so bad he's already going numb from the shock. Metaphorical internal bleeding. Do not resuscitate.

It was almost exactly a year ago he was here, in this exact seat, with this exact glass of whisky in his hand, meeting Mike Ross for the first time. Of course this is where his feet had taken him when he hadn't given them specific instructions on where to go.

His dad had been the one with the poet's soul but damn if Harvey didn't inherit some of that romantic nihilism. Tonight he's going to bring his story with Mike full circle, put and end the beginning that never was. Pathetic.

The bartender pours heavy. The tv is turned off. It doesn't take long to get a buzz going on an empty stomach.

The bar crowd picks up, but it never gets too busy for Harvey’s taste. Ten years ago he would be looking around to see who he could try and swing home to help him forget whoever had him feeling this way. Tonight, all he wants to do is get drunk enough to figure out how he's going to face Mike at the field tomorrow.

Someone slides into the seat next to him and Harvey turns away. The last thing he needs is to get sucked into small talk with some well-meaning stranger.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asks.

The newcomer shakes his head. "No, I'm not staying."

Harvey's head whips up. He knows that voice.

Mike.

The young man is standing right where he did the last time they were here together. Except that original confidence has been replaced with some kind of all consuming nervous energy that has the kid practically vibrating in his shoes.

"What are you... how did you find me here?"

"Doesn't matter," Mike says. He's talking fast and Harvey's certain that if his hands weren't shoved in his jacket pockets they'd be shaking along with the rest of him. "I need to talk to you and I don't have much time."

Harvey doesn't know what to do with that besides bite back a Terminator reference and nod.

"Your agent's going to call you any second. I know, it was kind of a crazy move, the whole waiver thing. I wanted to tell you. And I was going to. I swear. Everything just- It just got more complicated than I thought it would. But I did it. I got it done."

Harvey stares until it's obvious Mike isn't going to elaborate on any of that. "What are you talking about? What did you do?"

The phone rings. Right on cue.

Mike swallows, hopeful, yet nervous. "You should take that."

"What did you do?"

The phone rings again.

"I'm going to go," Mike says with a shake of his head, "I just need you to know I can revoke the waiver. Okay? It's an option."

The phone rings again.

"You don't move from this spot before I get back," Harvey says as he snatches the phone off the bar. "I know where you live."

He stalks off in search of a quiet corner, his mind running through a dozen different scenarios in the thirty seconds it takes him to find one.

“I told you not to lose hope,” Donna says the second he picks up the phone. “I just got an offer from the Mariners for next season. Do you have a minute to go over the numbers?”

“Seattle?” Why the hell would Mike try to kiss him, then ignore him, then orchestrate some kind of elaborate scenario to ship him to the other side of the goddamn country?

“Yeah, you’ve heard of it?” Donna snarks before switching back into agent mode. “It’s a good offer, Harvey. One year with an option-”

“Just text me the details,” he says. “I'll take a look and let you know in the morning.”

“Okay,” she says, wary since this should be good news and not a brush off. “I need an answer first thing, you know how it is.”

“Yeah,” he says, already hanging up. “I got it.”

Harvey gets back to the bar to find Mike exactly where he left him, though there’s less noticeably whisky in his glass than when he left it.

“What did you mean you can 'revoke the waiver'?”

Mike shifts on his feet. “I have an offer for you, too. The Mets do, I mean.”

“So why didn’t you just say that?”

There’s a frustrated sigh. Mike roughs a hand through his hair. “Because,” he says, and Harvey would swear he almost leaves it at that. “I need to know what it is you really want here, and I can’t be the reason you stay in the game.”

Holy shit.

Mike did all this so Harvey would have options?

Goddamn it. He'd strangle the kid if he didn't want to kiss him so badly.

“But you can be the reason I stay in New York?”

Mike shrugs, clearly out of his comfort zone, but too bad, they both are.

"Well?"

“The game’s the game, Harvey. I can’t promise you anything more than a year at a time and even then… the math is constantly changing and you’re this… I can’t do my job if-”

Mike's mouth is gearing up for one of his nervous rants, but Harvey doesn't want to hear any of the logical reasons Mike's come up with for why this shouldn't happen. They've wasted too much time on logic already.

“How about this, at the field I’m just a player. Off the field, we can be… whatever this leads to.”

It’s so obvious Mike wants to agree with him but instead he bites at his lip for second and asks, “You seriously think that will work?”

“I seriously want to try,” Harvey says, coming within a half step. “Don’t you?”

Mike suddenly finds the floor very interesting. “Yeah but what if… what if people find out?”

Harvey takes a second with that. “Are you worried about you or me?”

Mike nods toward him.

“Fuck ‘em.”

“Harvey,” Mike argues. “Stop. What about your legacy?"

“My legacy? Jesus, Mike! What about the rest of my life? I want to have something to look forward to besides the past. I want to build a life, a family. And I want to do it with you.”

For a minute Mike's shocked into silence. His voice is smaller when he finds it. “You barely know me... I'm not someone you build a life around.”

If Harvey could have the next hundred years to do anything he wanted with, he'd spend them proving to Mike Ross that he's completely, profoundly, and undeniably wrong.

“I know enough,” he sighs, taking Mike's hand in his. Gives it a squeeze to prompt some eye contact. “I trust the rest.”

Trust is a loaded word. It’s something Mike has had a hard time with since his parents died. It’s why he prefers numbers to people, why all of his relationships are doomed before they even start. But this feels different, has felt different since the night they met. Maybe that's the variable he's been unable to name. The factor that has no place in his formulas but is exactly what's been missing from his life. Trust.

Harvey pays his tab, nods toward the door and asks, “You coming?”

Mike doesn't ask where they're going. He just nods, and follows.

The sidewalks are crowded with the last of the commuters and the beginning of the dinner tourists and this is why Mike prefers to bike everywhere. No one shoulders you on a bike. You don't have to dodge baby carriages. There's no risk of stepping in gum.

He's still cataloguing all the reasons he doesn't like crowds when Harvey's arms slips around his waist and tugs him closer. Their steps fall into sync and some part of him exhales for the first time in years. And okay, maybe he could get used to this.

They arrive at what Mike assumes is Harvey's building. Harvey greets the doorman like they're friends but doesn't break his stride as he leads the way toward the elevator, one hand still at the small of Mike's back.

"You live here long?" Mike asks and immediately kicks himself for sounding so incredibly lame.

"Ten years," Harvey answers with a nod. "I got this place the second I could afford it."

Hang on a second. "Ten years ago you were playing for the Phillies."

Harvey does this thing with the corner of his mouth that makes Mike's heart flutter. "You know all my stats, don't you?"

"I know everyone's stats," Mike replies bluntly. "Why buy in New York when you knew you could end up anywhere?"

The elevator doors open and Harvey leads the way down a short hall. "New York's always been home. So even when I played in Philly and Denver and San Francisco, I had somewhere to come in the off season and remember who I am." He pauses to key open the door, holds it wide for Mike. "Besides," he adds with a smirk, "my agent told me real estate was a safe investment."

Mike steps into Harvey's penthouse apartment. Floor to ceiling glass, open living space. Everything's expensive yet restrained. It's not too unlike most other multi-millionaire's living situations he's happened to see, except for one glaring omission. There's no evidence, anywhere, that the man who lives here is a professional baseball player. No framed jerseys. No game balls in glass cases. No bats mounted like swords above the fireplace.

"You didn't even put out the Cy Young award?"

Harvey's behind his kitchen island, pouring himself a glass of water. He nods towards some bookcases in the corner that house more vinyl records than actual books. And sure enough, there's the Cy Young plaque, being used as an oversized bookend. There's more hidden in there as well. The olympic medal's in a simple display box separating jazz records from blues. There's another small box on a lower shelf that Mike would bet decent money house Harvey's World Series rings.

"It was all at my dad's," Harvey says, coming to stand next to him. "I thought I was excited to win these, but he was beyond..."

Mike looks over in time to watch the lines of Harvey's face shift with the effort to measure his words.

"I thought about putting some of it up. On the walls. But then I had my first surgery and I stopped earning things like these. They sat in storage for years until my agent told me it wasn't what he would've wanted."

"You two are close," Mike observes, returning his eyes to the shelves. Most agent/player relationships are pure business even if they share the occasional night out at a bar.

Harvey nods. "Finding people to trust in this game is hard. Everyone's got their own agenda or some angle in mind. So when I find someone I have a good gut feeling about, I tend to keep them around long term."

There's a heat climbing up Mike's collar. He can feel Harvey's eyes on him and he wishes he'd done more than steal half a glass of whisky earlier. A little liquid courage would go a long way right about now.

"Revoke the waiver."

Mike's brain shifts gears hard and fast. He looks back to Harvey, brow furrowed. "You haven't even heard the terms."

"I don't give a shit about the terms." Harvey says, shaking his head, but it's more with amusement than anything else. "God, for such a genius..."

"I can't guarantee-"

"Mike."

Mike's mouth snaps shut. His brain actually hits pause. Harvey steps closer, takes his hips in his hands and the electric current that surfs across Mike's skin nearly takes him out at the knees.

"There are no guarantees in life," Harvey says softly, leans in. Kisses down his neck for punctuation. "Revoke. The goddamn. Waiver."

Mike can feel his head nodding furiously as his brain gets back up to speed. He gets it now. He gets it. And he doesn't know exactly how he'll do what Harvey's asking, or if it'll even work, but he's finally realised that isn't the point. That trying to control every variable to optimize the outcome of a given situation is fine for his formulas, and it may very well revolutionize how baseball is run, but it has no place here, in the connection between two people.

Harvey's hands wander, grab beneath Mike's shirt. Mike reaches for Harvey's belt, finds there isn't one. He's thrown for a second before he finds the button and fly, creates enough room for his hands to explore. Harvey's response to his light touch is to pull a bruise to life just above his collarbone. When Mike goes to return the favor, Harvey nudges him away.

"You're not the one who has to shower in front of forty other guys," he says, then catches some look on Mike's face. "Just save it for the off season."

The off season. The future. Mike's whole world is usually only focused on the next few weeks at a time and it's always about work, about baseball, the players, the games, the numbers. Suddenly finds himself hoping they don't make the playoffs this year. So the off season can come sooner. So he can turn off. Have more of this. All of this.

Harvey's watching him, trying to read his mind, and Mike can feel his cheeks pulling into a grin. He's spent his whole career studying the game, there's a wild rush to being the one under the microscope, in this way, with this man.

He slips his hand into Harvey's and pulls him toward what he seriously hopes is the bedroom.

It's a night of firsts. The first time Mike laughs during sex. The first time he doesn't worry about the birthmark on his stomach. The first time he feels perfectly at ease telling someone to speed up or slow or right there, right there, right there.

And afterwards, washing up in the shower, the promises whispered in his ear, the languid kisses trailing down his back, the tenderness with which Harvey takes care of him until he's asleep, safe and warm, and dare he say it? Loved.

It's perfect. It's beyond measure.

It's home.

Chapter Text

If you'd bet $100 on the New York Mets to make the playoffs at the beginning of the season, you'd be pocketing close to $5000 now. The team makes it through the wildcard round by the skin of their teeth then stun everyone by sweeping the Braves in 3 to win the division.

Goliath, meet David.

Harvey's thought a lot about how different it feels to be on a team that's not expected to go the distance every year. The fans feel more alive, the stadium more electric. He finally feels like he's a part of something bigger than himself. And Mike's been no small part of that.

They spend most nights together when they're in New York. On the road there are too many extra eyes around and they agreed (well, Harvey agreed, Mike insisted) that the team needed to focus on the game and not get stuck dealing with rumors or worse, a media circus.

Being with Mike is so different to every other relationship Harvey's ever had. Granted he's usually dated models, actors, people on his 'level’ who he assumed would get him in a way others couldn’t. But he was wrong. So very very wrong.

Unlike everyone else Harvey’s dated, Mike Ross wouldn't know the first thing about walking a red carpet. He only owns one suit, (Harvey knows his closet intimately now) and it's the same one he wore to his grandmother's funeral. Expensive things don't impress him. Food, cars, clothing, none of it. And as Harvey learned to stop trying to impress Mike with his usual bag of tricks, he found that their connection only deepened, that he was able to relax into their dynamic, recover parts of himself he'd forgotten existed.

A night with Mike typically involves nothing more than ordering in after a long day, cozying up on the couch, watching something they've both seen until one falls asleep and the other brings him to bed. Mornings are taken slow. Sex, shower, pancakes, usually in that order. Harvey's already dreaming of the off season when they can take a break, go on a trip, somewhere they can let their guard down and walk down the street holding hands without worrying about who will see them. He needs to ask Donna do to some research.

Mike still worries about people finding out about them far more than Harvey does. Part of it is his protective instinct - Mike can be a bit of a guard dog when he wants to be - and part of it, likely subconsciously Harvey realises, is that Mike's still at the beginning of his career - he has so much more to lose than a pitcher-turned-firstbaseman who's just happy to be here. Besides, Harvey reminds himself whenever this particular frustration builds, their relationship is still new. These things take time. Building trust takes time. "Patience and love," his dad used to say, "you have those in your pocket, and you can do anything." Harvey used to think his dad was a fool, especially when he kept using that saying even after everything with his mom came to light. But now he knows his dad was right, and he just wishes he was still here, so he could tell him.

The Mets take the first two wins against the Dodgers in the league semifinals and then fly to Los Angeles to continue the series. Harvey's never liked the city, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't wish they had an extra couple of days there so he could take Mike out in West Hollywood for a late night or a early brunch.

The Dodgers win the next two to tie the series. Flying back to New York on a red eye, the jet lag catches up to him and Harvey nearly kisses Mike good night as they deplane and walk towards the waiting line of cars.

There's a built-in rest day after the 4th game to allow pitcher's arms to rest and once Harvey feels like his head's back in the right timezone he calls Mike to check in. But there's no answer. He chalks it up to jet lag and waits. And waits. And waits. He calls again but it doesn't even ring, it just goes straight to voicemail. He tries again, same thing.

Two minutes later, Harvey's in his car heading for Brooklyn. When he gets to Mike's place, he doesn't like what he finds.

Mike's pacing, shoulders drawn up, agitated. It's surprising the kid still has fingernails left with the way he's chewing at them. He hadn't even heard Harvey come in, he's so lost in his own head. When he finally does notice, he freezes like an animal caught in the headlights.

Harvey's already imagined a hundred worst case scenarios. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Mike says, crossing his arms to hide his nails for protect his heart, take your pick.

"Bullshit." Harvey walks closer. At the field, Mike may be in charge, but outside of their roles on the team, their dynamic reverses. "Talk to me."

Mike chews his lip instead. Harvey just waits, patient, until Mike inevitably explodes. "It's the fucking press! Okay?!"

The floor drops out from under Harvey's stomach.

Holy shit.

He can practically feel the colour draining from his face.

"What did they say? Is that why you turned your phone off?"

Mike nods, back to chewing that lip.

Goddamn it.

Harvey closes the short gap between them, pulls him into a hug. Mike's arms unfold and return the gesture.

When did those snakes even see enough to connect the dots? Why can't they leave them the fuck alone? What does it even matter-

Wait a second.

No one's called Harvey.

Not even Donna.

If their relationship was breaking news then surely someone would be blowing up his phone right now.

Harvey's heart rate down climbs from catastrophe to curiosity. "What's the press calling you about?"

Mike buries his head further into Harvey's shoulder and it's moments like these when Harvey's reminded that Mike's barely in his late twenties, places a kiss on his temple.

"I hate this part," Mike mumbles. "I just want to run the team but no." He pulls back, wipes away an errant tear, and resumes his earlier pacing. "Jessica keeps telling me this is part of the job and I need to get used to it, but I don't want to fucking get used to it! It’s like I’m being punished for being good at what I do!”

The underdog Mets making it to the semifinals has been every media outlet’s favourite story this post-season. Harvey’s done a handful of interviews, especially as his former team continues to steamroll their way to the World Series. The questions are as boring as they are predictable: How would it feel to go up against his old team at the big show? How does it compare being on the Mets in the playoffs instead of the Yankees? You seem to have adapted to playing first, you ever find yourself missing being on the mound?

Harvey’s a quick puff piece at best. But Mike? Mike's on the precipice of proving all his theories right. He’s poised to revolutionize the entire game of baseball.

If the Mets win.

Which means, until the fate of the Mets has been determined, every call Mike has made this season is under the microscope of the talking heads on ESPN, in the Times, on all the baseball blogs and Twitter feeds. Everyone has an opinion about how Mike Ross does his job, and with so few teams left in the post-season, it’s taking up more and more airtime and the demand for Mike’s attention has hit an exponential curve.

“I don’t even know how to talk about it,” Mike says, mouth sprinting to keep up with his mind. “My brain just does things sometimes and I don’t know why some stuff works and other stuff doesn’t. It just does, and the fun part is figuring it all out. But apparently that’s not a good enough answer! And I don’t know why, because it’s the truth, and I don’t even fucking care about their stupid fucking sound bites and their stupid fucking deadlines - I really fucking don't!”

“You done?”

The kid is practically steaming, but he makes eye contact long enough to take a grounding breath and nod.

“Good. What have I told you about dealing with the media?”

There’s a quick glare from Mike that's petulant enough for Harvey to have to work to hold back a smile. “They’re vultures.”

“And what else?”

A frustrated sigh of surrender. “They always move on.”

“Good," Harvey says with a wave down the hall, "now let’s get you to bed.”

“I’m fine,” Mike grumbles, eyeing the fridge and probably thinking about reaching for a beer. “I’m not jet lagged.”

Harvey smirks. “I wasn’t suggesting we go to sleep.”

Mike’s entire body shifts in an instant. His shoulders set back, his chin lifts, eyes widen, and there’s that smile Harvey loves so much. Mike nods toward the bedroom, but his feet stay planted, just in case. “After you.”

They’re still working on Mike’s trust issues, but Harvey is content to be chipping away at them. Progress is progress.

It’s like his dad used to say.

It’s not work if it’s love.

The Mets-Dodgers series drags into game seven. The talking heads on the tv keep repeating how the Mets have “no right” getting this far into the playoffs. They say it like it’s a compliment, but it just makes Mike grit his teeth through every godforsaken interview he’s forced to sit for.

The Mets play their hearts out, Harvey makes an epic double play and sends the game into extra innings.

They get a man on base.

A line drive to left field puts him in scoring position.

They're just one good hit away from making it to the big show...

... except the thing is, in a series-driven sport like baseball, any cracks in your foundation will eventually surface. The Mets have built their foundation on the backs of players every other team passed on, wrote off, or not even bothered to look at. The Mets training room is objectively worse than most Division I universities. But the Dodgers? The Dodgers have a roster of physical therapists, massage therapists, physicians, trainers, coaches larger than the entire Mets staff - including the box office! So when it's game 7, and the teams are going blow for blow, and the fate of the entire season rests on how well cared for one pitcher's shoulder is, the numbers Mike loves so much shift quickly out of his favor.

The Mets can’t get their man home.

The Dodgers take the plate.

A walk-off homer ends the game.

Dodgers 5, Mets 4.

It's not the fairytale ending the talking heads wanted. Their attention quickly zeroes in on the two teams officially heading for the World Series, and you know what? That suits Mike just fine.

The Dodgers go on to sweep the Yankees in 4 and Mike doesn't watch a single second of it. Harvey insists they spend those nights together, finding clever ways to distract themselves. Usually it involves the bedroom, which also happens to suit Mike just fine.

The post-season dust settles. Playoff bonuses are paid out. Jessica calls Mike into her office and actually says nice things about him. To his face.

He finally meets Donna. She hugs him before he even has a chance to say hello, whispers in his ear, "I've never seen him this happy," and Mike spends the rest of the night grinning so hard his face hurts the next morning.

Harvey keeps telling him not to make plans for the first week of December but won't tell him why. "It's a surprise," Harvey says for the hundredth time. Mike is making pancakes and Harvey's on his second cup of coffee. "You'll love it. Trust me."

"I do," Mike says sincerely, as if he's finally figuring it out himself. What this safe and solid warmth is called. "I trust you." He would swear Harvey looks more emotional at that than he did the first time he said I love you.

They spend Thanksgiving watching Charlie Brown and talking about moving in together. And when Mike wonders out loud if they're moving too fast Harvey snuggles in closer, kisses him and asks, "Does it feels too fast or does it feels like flying?"

"Like falling," Mike answers after a minute. "But in a good way."

They go on their trip. Mike had been expecting somewhere warm with beaches and bottle service. But instead they're in Copenhagen, kissing under the lights at Tivoli, holding hands in magical pop up Christmas markets, spending the long nights talking, dreaming, laughing, fucking.

They go to Boston for the holidays.

And looking back, that's when everything starts to unravel.

They were only supposed to spend a few nights with Harvey's brother, watch his niece open presents on Christmas morning and head back to New York the next day. But somehow the Red Sox hear that Mike’s in town, invite him to Fenway Park. Just to chat. Mike doesn't want to go, he'd rather stay in reading scouting reports and baking cookies with his future niece, but Harvey talks him into it.

So Mike goes.

He expects some sort of gambit for insight into his formulas, maybe even some sort of post-season trade offer, but instead they offer him a job. Same job he already has, but with about four times the budget and exponentially more resources at his disposal.

A year ago he would've leapt at the chance.

A year ago this would have been a dream come true.

A year ago, he didn't have Harvey.

He's in the car with Harvey, heading down the interstate. Boston in the rearview mirror.

"So," Harvey says, cheating his eyes off the road for a second. "You going to tell me what happened in that meeting the other day, or am I going to have to pull it out of you when we get home?"

Mike can't stop the reflexive smile that always happens whenever Harvey mentions ‘home’ as something they share even though they haven't moved in together and who's place they crash at each night is basically a coin toss.

"They offered me a job," he says. There's no use dragging it out. He's already made his decision.

Harvey does a double take. "They what?"

"General Manager of the Boston Red Sox."

"Are you serious?" Harvey's so incredulous. If there were more cars on the road Mike may actually have to ask him to pull over. "And you're just getting around to telling me this now?"

"I'm not taking it," Mike says with a smirk. "So you can relax."

"And why the hell not?!"

Now it's Mike's turn to double take. This is not the reaction he expected. At all. "Because," he says carefully, and shouldn't this be obvious? "My life is in New York."

"You mean I'm in New York."

"Yeah, but so are-"

"No. Mike. Call them back and take the job."

"Harvey-"

"You need to listen to me. This kind of opportunity doesn't-"

"Can you just let me-"

"I don't want you looking back ten years from now-"

"Jesus Christ, dude! Enough!" Mike catches a glare for his use of the word 'dude' which Harvey hates for some reason he's never bothered to explain. "Can I just talk? For like, one fucking second?"

Harvey keeps his mouth shut but the way he shakes his head says Fine, make it quick.

"Yes, you are part of the reason I want to stay. But! Let me finish - you're not the only reason. I’ve given this a lot of thought and… All of my memories with my family are in New York and I'm not ready to walk away from that, even if it's only a four hour drive away."

Harvey's eyes soften. His mouth quirks with thought. A hand reaches over and takes Mike's, gives it a squeeze. "Are you sure?"

Mike looks over at Harvey. Out the windows dusk has settled. The car hums quiet and steady beneath them. He's never been more sure of anything in his life. He doesn't even have to check the math.

He squeezes Harvey's hand back. "Yeah," he says, as those dark brown eyes turn toward him. "I'm sure."

Chapter Text

Harvey stays with the Mets for two more seasons before he's ready to call it. Not because his shoulder is giving out, or because he's not keeping up his batting average, or because they found a better option at first base - Louis has seriously come around since that first season, even invited him to go mudding, whatever that means. No, Harvey's ready to retire because every day he spends with Mike at the field is slowly killing him. Because as many times as he's begged Mike to go public with their relationship, Mike comes up with a new way to spin the same old excuse: it's not the right time.

At least they've moved in together - a renovated brownstone on the upper east side. A few people at the team even know about them, and the world hasn't come crashing down, but Mike's still scared and Harvey can't blame him. It's going to be a lot, coming out together. But staying in the closet like this is only going to suffocate them both.

The Mets have sent over another one-year deal. Donna doesn't even read them anymore, she just forwards it along with a winky-face emoji. But Harvey hasn't signed it. And Mike hasn't noticed.

It's mid-summer. They're in bed one morning. They've just finished having sex. And Harvey says something that to this day he still has no idea where it came from.

"If we win the World Series," he says looking over at the love of his life. "Would you let me kiss you at home plate?"

Mike's still coming down from his post-orgasm high. He laughs. "Yeah, sure."

"I'm serious," Harvey insists, knocking a foot into Mike's to try and sober him up.

Mike rolls his head over to get a better read on the situation, then props himself up on his elbows. "You really are," he says, then laughs again because the Mets didn't even come close to making the playoffs last season and are equally as unlikely to make them again in the current one.

"Deal?"

Mike rolls his eyes, flops back onto his pillow. "Yeah, deal."

Harvey lays there, watches Mike's mind fidget until the younger man gets up and heads toward the shower. Then stares up at the ceiling, wondering for the hundredth time if he should have pushed Mike harder into taking that job in Boston. Would things have played out differently? Or would it just have ended sooner?

The summer slides by. Mike makes a couple of Fucking A trades and the Mets climb their way to the top of their division.

September arrives and the Mets make the playoffs. Barely. But they make it. And the second the announcement goes live Mike's temper sits balanced on a knife's edge. The kid clearly still carries a few scars from the first time they went to the post season.

"I almost hope we lose tomorrow," Mike says, stabbing at his dinner. "How fucked up is that?"

The Mets are predicted to lose to the St Louis Cardinals in the best of 3 wildcard round.

"Pretty fucked up," Harvey agrees absently. It's been a full week of this. A full week of Mike trying to talk himself out of wanting the thing he's spent the better part of a decade working his ass off for. And Harvey is beyond over it.

"If we do win," Mike continues between chews. "Jessica should hire me a publicist. Like, in addition to the team one. Maybe it could even be someone who looks like me. I could lend him some clothes, he could go in my place. No one would ever know... That was a joke, you were supposed to laugh."

"Sorry," Harvey replies, finishing off his drink. He forces a smile he thinks is believable. "You're hilarious."

But it only makes things worse.

"Wow." Mike stands, takes his plate, and heads for the kitchen.

"Sorry," Harvey says more earnestly.

But Mike's ignoring him. Or pretending to. Which he knows is a great way to push Harvey's buttons. That self-righteous little... "I'm sick of listening to you self destruct!"

Mike drops his dishes in the sink with a clatter. "I'm not self-destructing!"

Harvey stands, stares him down. "You're always ready to make the objective call during the regular season, anything to maximize our on-base, so we can get the most runs, so we can get the most wins. Well, this what happens when you win! You go to the playoffs! Every other team is excited to be here, but you-"

"I want to win!"

Harvey lifts a brow. "You sure as shit don't act like it."

"It's just the press, okay? I hate being on camera. I hate having everything I say recorded. I hate-"

"No, that's not it. You hate that you might say the wrong thing and they'll find out about us."

Mike bites at the inside of his lip with a vengeance.

"What are you going to do when we win the World Series and I want to kiss you at home plate?"

Mike short circuits, blinks rapid fire. "What are you-" and then he remembers. "You're actually holding me to that?!"

Harvey's shrug is a dare. "A deal's a deal."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me. No. No fucking way!"

"Fine," Harvey snaps. "Then when?"

"When what?"

"When do we get to stop hiding?!"

"When it's time!"

"Jesus! Enough with the bullshit! What is it? Hm? Spell it out for me. Why can't we be happy in public?"

Mike tears his eyes away, which means whatever he's about to say is actually something close to the truth. "Because it's irreversible!"

"What is?" Harvey challenges, trying to calm down now that they're finally getting somewhere.

"Telling people! There's no undoing it or fixing it. Once people know, it's all over!"

"There's nothing to fix! Goddamn it, Mike. We're not broken! How many times do we have to have the same goddamn argument?"

"You tell me," Mike snaps. "I stopped keeping count."

There's a split second where Harvey wonders if this how it all ends. Right here. Right now. Mike's been so wrapped up in avoiding everything that he hasn't even noticed Harvey hasn't signed his new deal and they can't talk about anything that matters without ending up in a fight.

What if the Mets do get to the World Series? What if they win? What if all of their dreams come true and instead of it being the best day of their lives, it's the end of the life they've built together?

Mike's walking toward the bedroom, but it's not to initiate make up sex. No, he's going to do what he does when he's well and truly pissed off. He's going to pack a bag and stay at his old place in Brooklyn, the one he still hasn't been able to part with. He says it's for sentimental reasons, and sure, that's probably part of it, but the truth is Mike needs an escape hatch to feel safe. And as much as Harvey understands, it still hurts every time he uses it. This time is no different.

Mike hates when Harvey's right. Especially about their relationship. Especially right now.

They keep it professional at the field, but Harvey starts playing the game like it's personal - swings the bat like he wants to murder the ball. Everything about his form sharpens like a weapon ready for battle. They take out St Louis, win the wildcard round so easily the talking heads are left temporarily speechless.

Mike tries to apologise to Harvey. But it just turns into another argument so he stays in Brooklyn another few nights, tries not to imagine having to move back there permanently.

They head to Chicago for the division series. Best of 5. He and Harvey always have separate hotel rooms on the road, but they haven't actually used them in years. Before he was with Harvey, Mike used to sleep in the middle of the bed. Now, even without him there, he sticks to his side, doesn't like how cold the other half feels when it's empty.

Harvey's on-field edge hasn't dulled between the last series and this one. If anything, he's honed it - and it's spreading. The Mets come out swinging against the Cubs. Literally. And while normally Mike would be tearing his hair out at the wildly aggressive batting, he can't actually fault anyone because they're connecting at an unprecedented rate. The first game ends Mets 12 - Cubs 2 and the bookies in Vegas have to stay up all night recalculating the odds.

Mike's late getting back to the hotel. The post-game press junket went on forty minutes longer than it was supposed to and he's feeling absolutely drained. He wants to go to bed, but just the idea of opening the door to an empty room has his stomach twisting into knots. He stops at the bar for a shot of liquid courage and then heads to Harvey's room.

He knocks. And waits.

Harvey answers, gives him a quick up and down appraisal. "How'd it go with the vultures? Spill any state secrets?"

Mike bites back something nasty and sighs instead. He deserves that. "I did not." He waits for an invitation that doesn't come, is forced to ask, "Can I come in?"

Harvey actually thinks about it, which hurts almost more than Mike can handle right now, then opens the door wide.

Mike walks in, eyes immediately finding the bed, the one still half-made that mirrors his own.

"I hate this," he says softly, turning back around.

The door closes loud like all hotel doors do.

Harvey stops a full step away, arms crossing over his chest. "So do I."

Mike swallows. "I know," he says, wishing Harvey would come closer, hug him, hold him, tell him it was all okay. "And I know this is my shit to work on and I'm working on it. I am. I just-"

Harvey's looking at him like he's heard this all before and something in Mike cracks open.

"I'm scared," he confesses, voice straining not to break. "That we come out. And you still leave me."

Harvey's brows jump. "In what world would I ever leave you?"

Mike shrugs, eyes dropping away. "The odds are never zero."

"Jesus, kid," Harvey says, stepping in and scooping him into the perfect hug. "I thought we were past this."

Mike hugs him back, buries his head in his shoulder. There's a kiss on his temple that should heal the crack but instead threatens to tear it wide open. "I know."

They spend the night together in the middle of the bed, limbs tangled, knitting tender wounds closed.

The Mets winning streak continues. Mike endures the press.

They make short work of the Cubs, face off against the Phillies for the National League title. The Phillies were every bookmaker's favourite going into the post-season, but the first game out the Mets make them look like a Double-A team with no business being in the pros.

The press go ballistic. For once, however, the outcome has nothing to do with any last minute adjustments Mike's made to the roster. It's all Harvey, and what he's inspired in the team. Mike tells the reporters as much, is in no way prepared for the questions that start flying.

"What do you think has Specter playing like a man possessed?"

"I, uh-"

"He's playing like he has something to prove. Do you think it has anything to do with rumors of his retirement?"

"He's not-"

"Your front office has confirmed he hasn't signed his contract extension."

Mike can feel his face going white. He stutters something unintelligible. The team's PR rep has to swoop in to cut it short and save his ass.

He heads out that night numb with shock. How could Harvey not tell him? Is he really thinking of calling it quits? Is he playing like this because he knows it's his last shot at a title? Or is he still thinking about that stupid deal? There one where they get to the World Series - and at this point that's looking like an actual possibility - and actually win? Is Harvey actually going to be standing at home plate waiting for Mike to get up the courage to join him? And if so, will Mike rise to the occasion? Or will he find some stupid excuse to keep hurting the man he loves?

He gets home, tells Harvey he has a headache, which isn't technically a lie, and goes to bed early so they can avoid another fight.

The Mets continue winning. Harvey never mentions the deal they've made, he doesn't have to. The way he's playing night in and night out says plenty. They're going to the big show. And there's a damn good chance they're going to win. And if they do, Harvey's going to be standing at home plate. And Mike's going to have a choice to make.

It should be everything, but it's all too much. These two halves of Mike's life are on a collision course and there's nothing he can do to stop it. His old wounds keep threatening to split open and it takes so much of his energy to hold himself together. And he has to hold it together or he's going to have a panic attack on live tv. 

The Mets take the Phillies down in five games. There's only one team left to beat now, and because God has a twisted sense of humor, it’s the New York fucking Yankees.

The media goes ballistic. Mike barely survives the pre-game press junket. 

It's the Yankees who draw first blood, pummel the Mets 11-3 in Game 1. The Mets fight back, but still come up short the second game. The third game takes them back to their home field and they scrape out a 4-3 win in extra innings. In Game 4 the Yankees make a fielding error and the Mets take full advantage. They tie the series up 2-2, but the bookies still favor the Yankees. Everyone does. The Mets wins were sloppy, could be accounted for by lucky breaks instead of precision or strategy.

It's all starting to feel like history is repeating itself.

Mike stops doing press - or tries to - eventually negotiates with Jessica to get it down to one phone interview a day, no more than twenty minutes.

He expects things with Harvey to be tense during their downtime, but he wakes up on the morning of their rest day with Harvey snuggled in close, fingertips tracing up the inside of his thigh. They spend the day in bed, on the couch, then back in bed. Mike juggles a few work calls about the lineup going into the next game, gives one-word answers during his mandatory interview, tries not to eavesdrop as Harvey spends an hour charming the reporters during a virtual press junket.

Harvey has this magic ability to make things sound so easy, so simple. He can take the most pointed question and judo it back around so perfectly that the person asking the question won't even realise he didn't actually answer until they get back to the office to write the story. Which is why, when a reporter from one of those waiting room magazines asks about his dating prospects, Mike expects Harvey to find some clever way to sidestep like he has a dozen times before. But instead he says, "I have everything I need right here," and cheats his eyes off camera to look at him from across the room.

For a split second, Mike nearly panics. There are going to be a thousand follow up questions and- wait, no, Harvey's already pivoted the interview to the latest episode of the Great British Baking Show (which he doesn't even watch) and the press are just rolling with it. 

"How do you do that?" Mike asks the second Harvey hangs up. He's been openly staring the last ten minutes.

"Do what?" Harvey replies despite knowing full well what Mike's talking about.

"You're like an interview ninja. People ask you a direct question and you don't answer it and they're just okay with that?"

"It's their job to ask questions," Harvey says with a shrug, pulling Mike up from his seat on the couch, slipping his hands around his waist. "My job is to play baseball."

Somehow, that actually makes sense, which might be proof they spend too much time together. "And you're very good at your job," he says, leaning into Harvey's touch. 

"That's not all I'm good at," Harvey smirks, and tugs Mike toward the bedroom by his waistband.

The sex that night is so good Mike actually forgets to stress about all the questions that are still have unanswered between them and somehow manages to enjoy his life exactly as it is. 

The Mets rally for Game 5. Harvey's once again playing like his life is on the line. He connects every time he's at the plate. A solo home run, an off the wall double, and a bouncing line drive that nearly earns him an infield triple. Louis finds Mike after they crush the Yankees 7-1 to ask what the hell he's done to their star first baseman and can he do it to everyone else on the team?

Mike's cheeks heat to a visible shade of red and he mumbles something about the breakfast of champions.

The Yankees take Game 6 in a long, drawn out slug fest.

When Mike opens his eyes on the morning of Game 7, Harvey's already awake.

"We're going to win tonight," Harvey says with the same casual certainty usually reserved for saying things like 'the sky is blue,' except the way he's looking at him holds too much weight. 

The implied question is where will Mike be when it happens? Will he be in the suite, with the rest of the front office staff? Or will he be on the field, with Harvey? But Mike has been holding back a question of his own, and it's finally time to ask it.

"If we win," he says, rolling onto his back to avoid having to make eye contact. "Are you going to finally sign your contract?"

Harvey's quiet for a long while. Eventually he says, "I don't know yet," and then gets up to shower.

They ride to the stadium together in silence, part ways the second they enter. 

There’s something even Harvey doesn’t know about how Mike watches the game when there's this much on the line. During a regular match Mike will split his time between the suite, the dugout, and if they're at home, his office. Anything to avoid sitting still too long. But if it's any game that carries actual weight? That's when he'll be in the training room, on a stationary bike, watching the play by play via telecast. And if he doesn't like how his on-field coaches are managing? He'll call the dugout and make his adjustments without ever having to dismount.

Mike has six miles logged before the first pitch is thrown. He's told Jessica he'll be in the dugout and Louis he'll be in the suite. He's put his cell on silent. 

The Yankees take an early lead and Mike feels like an asshole for the sense of relief it brings him. He ups the resistance on the bike and pedals through the 6th inning until his legs finally give out. He showers before the team comes back for the 7th inning stretch, changes into some fresh clothes, snags a team jacket from Harvey's locker. 

His tired legs won't go back to the bike. They're nearly too spent to even pace. He stands, arms crossed tight over his chest, leaning against the end of the tunnel closest to the dugout, and watches as the Mets gets a few solid hits, tie the game at the top of the 8th.

The Yankees take their turn at bat but can't find a run as the closing pitcher makes three swift outs.

Top of the 9th. Tie game. 

Harvey Specter comes up to the plate.

The stadium goes electric.

Anyone else watching would expect Harvey to swing as the first pitch flies dead center over home plate.

Strike one.

But Harvey just adjusts his grip, and readies himself for the next one.

Even now, with this much at stake, Harvey is the most patient man Mike has ever met. Everyone else sees flash and charisma, but Mike knows the steady heart that beats beneath it all.

Harvey chips the next ball foul for another strike, then crowds the plate to draw a few balls from his former teammate.

Full count.

The next pitch is a sinker, but Harvey must have been expecting it because he connects - CRACK! - and sends the ball skipping wildly into left field. It’s not a home run - it’s just enough for a clean single, but Harvey’s blowing past first and sprinting for second! No no no! What the hell! Mike holds his breath as Harvey's forced to slide and the baseman reaches for the tag.

The umpire’s arms swipe wide. “Safe!”

And just like that, the Mets are in scoring position. There's officially hope.

Mike's stomach fills with dread. His head is doing a hundred calculations at once, but they fade into the background as he watches Harvey stand, dust himself off, look toward the owner’s suite.

Mike’s brain short circuits. His heart sinks. Harvey’s not going to find what he’s looking for, because Mike’s an asshole. A coward. And god, this man deserves so much better than him.

The next few batters follow Harvey’s lead. Stack counts, tire the pitcher, and swing for the fences when they get the opportunity. One gets on base, one sends a pop-fly into center field, and one goes down swinging.

Mike tries, but he can't predict what's coming. His brain is snowed with static and his stomach is in knots.

Top of the 9th.

Two men on base.

Two outs.

Carter Bennett steps up to the plate. Carter Bennett who Mike traded for two years ago because the kid loves to draw walks and mosey to first without breaking a sweat. Calm, cool, collected.

Mike’s expecting the same from him tonight. He’s expecting his most consistent player to take some pitches and load the bases. But instead Carter Bennett chops the bat at the very first pitch and - CRACK! - sends the ball screaming high and far into the outfield. No, further than that - he launches it into the stands!

The dugout loses their damn minds. Louis can barely stop the players from charging the field right then and there.

Harvey rounds the bases, jogs across home and Mike’s never seen the love of his life so happy and he finds himself smiling for a second before the knot of dread in his stomach grows, deepens, and he feels like he's going to throw up.

The Yankees pull their pitcher. The next Mets batter goes down swinging.

Bottom of the 9th. 

The Yankees have to make three runs to send the game into extra innings. Four will win it all.

Mike wishes he could go back to the bike, go anywhere, really, but his legs won’t move from this spot. His arms won’t uncross. He chews on the inside of his bottom lip and watches the Mets' closer throw pitch after pitch after pitch.

The first Yankees batter takes three strikes.

One out.

The next sends a line drive down the third baseline, gets himself on first.

The Mets have their lead but the game isn’t over yet.

Mike doesn’t have to make a decision yet.

There’s still time.

The next batter sends a fly ball deep into center field. The outfielder loses it in the lights - but he makes the catch!

The runner at first advances to second.

But there are two outs. Just one more to go.

The stadium stomps in unison.

The next batter steps up to the plate, takes a strike and then and knocks the cover off the next pitch. Mike’s heart drops into his stomach as the ball soars out into right field.

Going.

Going.

Gone.

And just like that, the Yankees are 1 run away from sending this game into extra innings.

Their next batter steps up to the plate. Mike's heart is lodged in his throat. He can't watch the pitch. He locks his eyes on Harvey, marvels at how far he's come. Harvey used to actually look scared at first base, but there's no evidence of that fear now. There's only confident, laser-focused precision.

The count stacks up 2-2.

They just need one more strike.

Another pitch.

CRACK!

The ball screams low and fast into left field. It's scooped up. Rocketed to first.

And Harvey makes the play!

Three outs!

Game over!

Mets win!

The stadium erupts with commotion. 

Blue and orange and white confetti rain down onto the field.

Mike watches as Harvey makes his way from first to home, the crowd thick around him. He should be smiling, but he's searching.

The dugout empties. Support staff are rushing the field.

Holy shit.

They won...

They actually won.

All the world's momentum is trying to carry Mike out there, but his feet won't move. None of him will. Until Harvey's eyes land on him. Until Harvey nods like It's okay, I'll still love you either way, and heartbreak blooms in the creases around his eyes.

The next thing Mike knows his feet are moving and he's out of the tunnel and on the field. And Harvey's smile is breaking wide. And the world is shrinking down down down. Until it's just the two of them. Alone. For all the world to see.

"Really?" Harvey half-shouts above the noise. “You’re sure?”

Mike shakes his head. No. Absolutely not. But being sure isn't what this was ever about. It was always about trust and there's no one in the world he trusts more than the man before him. 

"A deal’s a deal," he shouts back. He's grinning now, too. He can tell by the sting in his cheeks.

Harvey takes his hand.

Mike's heart beats like a hummingbird.

This is it.

Cameras flash and Mike looks over, but the cameras are trained on the rest of the team as they dogpile on Carter Bennett.

This is good. Maybe they won't even notice one little kiss.

Mike looks back to Harvey whose face has shifted into something more sentimental.

He can't wait any longer, can't risk overthinking it.

He leans in.

And then Harvey drops out of frame.

He blinks.

Harvey's down on one knee.

Why is-

Holy shit.

Harvey's down on one knee.

"I swear I didn't plan this," Harvey says. There's a nervous edge to his trademark charm. "But it feels like the right thing to do."

Mike hears himself saying "Oh my god." The cameras are turning toward them but he doesn't even notice. He can't. Harvey Specter is on one knee!

"Mike," Harvey's half-shouting again, like he needs to make sure Mike hears this part. "You came into my life when I wasn't sure what I had left to offer. You gave me a new perspective. On this game but also on life - what I want from it and how I want to live it. You asked a lot of questions I didn't have answers for, but I do now. The answer is you. It's always been you. And I want to be there for you, and with you, for as long as you'll have me."

The words holy shit continue looping on repeat in the back of Mike's brain. He feels himself nodding a lot.

"Michael James Ross," Harvey says, and then takes a breath. "Will you marry me?"

The old wounds inside of Mike's chest burst open. He'd always assumed it would be pain that poured through, but it's not. It's pure, unfiltered joy.

"Yeah," he nods. Or maybe he never stopped nodding. "Yes!"

He pulls Harvey to his feet, takes his beautiful face in his hands and kisses him without another thought.

Camera flashes feel like fireworks. 

The team catches on, swarms around them, whooping and hollering.

The world doesn't end.

The sky doesn't fall.

And the crowd.

Goes.

Wild.