Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started on a random Tuesday.

It wasn’t anything dramatic at first—just a dry scratch at the back of Harvey’s throat that interrupted him mid-sentence during a meeting. He cleared it away with a sip of water and carried on like nothing happened.

By Thursday, it was more insistent. Donna was the first to notice, of course. She cocked an eyebrow at him as she set a file on his desk.

“You’re coughing.”

“And you’ve got eyes. Impressive, really.” Harvey gave her a thin, sarcastic smile, picking up the document.

“You never get sick. I've known you for twelve years.” She persisted.

He looked up at her. “Exactly, I never get sick. So don’t worry.”

He didn’t let her see the way his chest burned.

🌸

By Monday, the cough had become a constant companion. It lurked in his ribs, pressing up whenever he tried to speak for too long. In depositions, it cut him off mid-sentence, forcing him to pause for a sip of water. 

🌸

“Is it contagious?” The opposing counsel asked him in the court.

“No, I’m just allergic to your bullshit.” Harvey made a well timed joke and the room laughed, moving on. Harvey knew how to make people see what he wanted them to see.

At night, though, there was no one to fool but himself. He’d sink into his couch, tie undone, glass of whiskey in his hand. The coughing fits came harder, sometimes wracking his whole frame. He muttered curses between swallows of liquor, convincing himself that he didn’t need a doctor.

But the very next day, that was proven wrong.

🌸

Mike and Harvey sat across from a potential client whose company was worth half a billion dollars.

“You’re asking for twenty percent more than the others,” Sydney Swanson said coolly. “So, Mr. Specter—tell me why I shouldn’t just walk down the street to Bratton Gould.”

Harvey smirked. “Because Bratton Gould will tell you what you want to hear. We tell you what you need to know. And knowing the—“

Harvey felt a little tickling, faint irritation at the back of his throat. He coughed once, twice, but ignored it and kept going. “And knowing the difference is what saves your millions.” 

They moved like a well-oiled machine: Harvey making the statement while Mike presented the numbers to back up their claim. 

It was just another day at Pearson Hardman.

Until it wasn’t. 

By the time they shifted to the next topic, the irritation in his throat had sharpened into something insistent. Harvey swallowed hard, trying to mask it. “Our firm—” His voice caught. He forced a small cough into his fist. “Excuse me—”

Then the coughing took him. Harsh, racking bursts that tore through his chest and shredded his composure. His eyes watered, his breath snagged, and every head in the room turned toward him.

“Excuse me,” he muttered again, already pushing back his chair. “Mike, you got this?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he left the meeting room.

🌸

The corridor blurred as he strode out, each step loud against the rasp of his own breathing. By the time he reached the bathroom, his control was slipping. He gripped the sink, shoulders hunched, and let the coughs shake through him.

Something was stuck at the back of his throat, feather-light but clinging. He was coughing for a while but it stayed lodged there, soft and slippery, teasing his gag reflex until his stomach clenched. 

He tried to swallow it down, but whatever it was, it only fluttered stubbornly in place, and the nausea rose, sudden and sour, urging him to retch it out.

He spat into the basin, expecting bile, maybe a streak of blood.

But what landed on the porcelain wasn’t either.

It was a petal.

Pale pink, paper-thin, unmistakable in the broad daylight.

Harvey froze.

He stared at it, chest still hitching. For a moment, his brain stalled, grasping for logic. A fragment from someone’s flower arrangement? Something stuck in his throat from the lobby?

He touched it, just to be sure. It was real.

His hand hovered above the sink, shaking faintly.

“What the hell…” he whispered.

The petal clung wetly to porcelain, delicate, perfect. It didn’t belong there. It didn’t make any sense. He would have noticed if he had swallowed a whole petal.

Harvey straightened slowly, eyes catching on his reflection in the mirror. His tie was crooked, his mouth stained with saliva at the corner. He looked shaken, unsteady.

His hands trembled as he scooped it up. The silky texture pressed against his fingertip was undeniable. No trick of the light, no stress-induced hallucination.

Harvey stared at the petal, chest still heaving. Pink. Silky soft. The kind of thing one might absentmindedly tuck into a book if they found it on the street.

Whatever... I need to get back to the meeting... 

He turned to leave, when another cough tore out of him, sharp and brutal. He doubled over with the sheer intensity of his coughs, knuckles white on the sink. The sound rattled off the tiles in the empty restroom. He spat again, and there it was, another petal.

“Fuck,” Harvey whispered, voice shredded raw. Once could be an accident–but twice? What are the chances?

He picked the petal up and closed his fist around it, hard enough to crush it, as though destroying the evidence might erase the question.

Because Harvey Specter, for the first time in years, didn’t have an answer.

🌸

Back in his office, Harvey went straight for his desk. He should have gone back to the meeting with Swanson. Instead, he pulled his laptop closer, fingers hesitating over the keys before finally typing: coughing up petals.

The result began with a bold word. Hanahaki. The fuck is that! A dish?!

He scrolled, lips pressed into a thin line. A disease so rare it was practically urban legend—barely two thousand recorded cases worldwide. Symptoms start innocuously: throat irritation, persistent coughing. Then came the petals. Then flowers. Eventually, entire blossoms suffocate, choke a person’s lungs until they lose their ability to intake air and die.

Cause: Unrequited love. 

Non-treatable.

A few patients died during the attempted surgical removal of the vines. So, it was either die with the plants in your lungs, or die trying to remove them.

It was Terminal with the capital T.

The search results made his chest tighten more than the coughing had.

Unless—

Harvey’s eyes snagged on the word. Unless the feelings are returned. The object of his affection must reciprocate the same feelings and confess them, for it to work.

He sat back in his chair, forcing out a sharp laugh that earned a side eye from Donna through the glass walls. Lovesick. He was lovesick. That’s what the internet was telling him? That he was coughing his guts out because of some unspoken…longing?

It was absurd. It was impossible. And yet the petals he hacked up earlier said otherwise. He could deny what he’d read, but he couldn’t deny this.

Nobody suspects it—not from a little cough. Nobody except the patient. 

This had to be a myth. No wonder his doctor always tells him never to google symptoms, every little thing turns out to be a symptom of cancer or some shit. 

He scrolled down to see how long—

A knock on the door jolted him. He shoved the laptop shut and composed his face just in time—

🌸

Mike barged into Harvey's office with the biggest grin on his face and tossed a file on his desk.

“Meeting went well, I take it?” Harvey said, forcing a smile as he saw the contract signed by Swanson.

“You should’ve seen it,” Mike beamed. “I told her—‘We’ve reviewed your contracts, your risks. Our plan doesn’t just cover the obvious—it anticipates what your competitors would miss.’ She raises an eyebrow and goes—” And like the Idiot he was, Mike did a high pitched female voice for the re-enactment, “Bold. You’re confident. I like that. But confidence doesn’t guarantee results.”

The scratchy feeling was back but Harvey managed a faint smirk. Mike plowed on, animated, reenacting each beat with his hands.

“And I shot back, ‘Results come from foresight, strategy, and execution. And execution? That’s where we don’t just talk—we act. We’ll be there every step, making sure nothing slips through. No surprises. No last-minute fires.’” Mike was going on and on, back and forth, doing voices, like a one man show, but the words fell on Harvey’s deaf ears.

He zeroed in on the way Mike’s eyes lit up when he talked, blue like summer skies, always too bright, too open. The way his mouth shaped the words, lips dark pink, almost too soft for someone who spent half his time talking and arguing. The way his hands moved, animated, like his brain was moving too fast for his body to keep up.

Harvey’s chest constricted. Not just figuratively. Literally.

The cough clawed up before he could stop it. He clamped his jaw shut, forced it down with a swallow. “And she was like— You talk big but that doesn’t equal substance. Can you prove it?”

Were his eyes always this blue? 

“And then boom! I showed her our McKernon motors stats and —“

And Harvey couldn’t keep it down no matter how hard he tried, went back into another coughing fit. 

“Harvey?” Mike quickly grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and pressed it toward him. 

Harvey waved it off, stumbling to the decanter. He poured himself a hefty swallow of whiskey and knocked it back. And another. The burn scoured his throat, beating back the scratch just enough.

He lowered the glass slowly, staring at the amber swirl.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

When Harvey lowered the glass, he saw Mike’s grin had faded, replaced with thinly veiled worry. “Okay, what the hell was that?”

Harvey wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, settling into his chair like nothing had happened. “Just a cough, Rookie. Relax.”

“Bullshit,” Mike shot back, dropping into the chair across from him. “You’ve been hacking up a lung since the past week, so much so that you had to leave the meeting halfway, and now you’re chugging whiskey like it’s water. This doesn’t look normal, Harvey, you should get it checked.”

“It’s just a scratchy throat, Mike. People get those, you know. Even me.”

Mike frowned, studying him. The color still hadn’t fully returned to Harvey’s face, still red from the coughing. “Still, you should see a doctor.”

“Yeah, thanks, Mom.” Harvey raised the glass again. The whiskey burned, but at least it gave him something to focus on besides the ghost of that petal in his throat.

“Harvey,” Mike pressed. “You don’t just—” He gestured vaguely at Harvey’s chest. “—fall apart in the middle of a pitch. That’s not you. Something’s wrong.”

“Wrong?” Harvey’s laugh was sharp, hollow. “Wrong is you sitting in my office when you’ve got work to do. Are you done drafting the Gillis Industries contract?”

Mike narrowed his eyes, not moving. “I’m not going anywhere until you stop pretending this is nothing.”

Harvey swiveled his chair toward the window, dismissing him with a flick of his hand. “Then I hope you’re comfortable, because you’ll be waiting a long time.”

The silence stretched. Harvey kept his gaze fixed on the skyline, jaw tight, throat raw. If he looked at Mike—at that stubborn crease between his brows, at the concern softening those stupidly blue eyes—he wasn’t sure he could keep the mask in place.

So he didn’t.

This might have gone on for like five minutes, Harvey could feel his eyes on him the whole time. But Mike finally gave up, left muttering something that sounded like, “Why do I even try with you...”

Harvey relaxed in his chair, staring at the skyline as though it could offer an answer. The word from the medical article still sat heavy in his chest. Object of affection.

He let out a low breath and rubbed his jaw.

The logical part of his brain tried to line it up like evidence in a case. Who could it be? Someone he’d dated? Someone he slept with, once upon a time? Scottie? But it had been a while and even the news of her getting married didn’t bother him the slightest. Donna? He cared about her, sure. But love? The kind that rooted itself deep enough to choke a man from the inside out? No. Not even close.

He knew the truth before the question even formed. He tried to rationalize the situation but it came down to one name he had been avoiding even thinking about.

Mike.

His throat tightened at the thought, and he pressed a fist against it as if he could hold the petals down by sheer will.

Ridiculous. He refused to give it that much power. He was Harvey Specter. He didn’t get “lovesick.” He didn’t fall apart over some kid with puppy-dog eyes and a smile that lit up entire rooms. He didn’t risk everything for someone who—

He cut the thought off, hard.

No. He wasn’t going to think about the way Mike’s voice sped up when he was excited, or the way his laugh slipped under Harvey’s skin like sunlight through windows. He wasn’t going to think about those goddamn blue eyes.

The diagnosis might say “object of affection”, but Harvey had never dared to give it a name.

But deep down, he knew it. It was him, wasn’t it? It was him from day one. Consciously or unconsciously, Harvey’s every decision had been affected by him since the moment he met him. He just never thought of it as “love” love. 

Harvey pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. He’d gone his entire life without this. Love. The big word people threw around like confetti. He didn’t fall for anyone. Not really. He liked, he wanted, he had fun, he moved on. Nobody ever stuck. Nobody ever got under his skin long enough to matter.

And now? Now, out of nowhere, his body decided to betray him. Not with cancer or brain tumor—but with some fairy-tale disease that killed you for unrequited feelings.

Why now? Why this way?

And why him.

The one person Harvey couldn’t have. The one person who was off-limits six ways from Sunday. His associate. His direct subordinate. The guy who wasn’t available.

Hell, Mike might not even be into guys.

Harvey’s mouth twisted into a bitter smirk, but his chest felt tight all over again. Of course. Of course this was how it went. Did all his karma finally decide to cash in all at once? Every corner cut, every lie spun, every rule broken—was this his price? To choke to death on something as soft and stupid as a fucking flower?

He bet the universe was having a nice laugh at his expense. The power hungry, soulless corporate lawyer fell for the too pure for this world, bleeding heart of a man. Just his luck!

He leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk, and buried his face in his hands. Just for a moment. Just long enough to let the mask slip in the privacy of his office.

Then came the knock.

And Harvey was Harvey again. 

Donna peeked in from the doorway, “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” She frowned.

“Oh I’m sorry, do I have to take permission from you guys before I get a cough now?!”

“Wow, o-kay.” She drawled, choosing to let it slide, “Anderson and Gillis in are waiting in conference room C. Do you want me to reschedule?”

“No, I’m coming.” Harvey sighed, hoping his body cooperates for at least half an hour. There was nothing he could do but hope.

🌸

Donna and Mike’s pestering worked. To put his mind at ease, Harvey did go to the doctor after work. And she told him exactly what he already knew. What she couldn’t give in information, she tried to make up for with prescriptions. He stared down at the paper slip she handed him for promethazine with codeine and dextromethorphan. “Palliative, not curative.” she’d said.

In short, nothing was going to change by coming here.

🌸

Mike pushed open the glass door without knocking, a thick case file in his hands. 

“You’re not gonna believe this—“

He froze for half a second when he caught the sight of—

“Harvey, it’s not even 10 a.m. yet.”

His voice was half reproach, half concern, but Harvey didn’t look the slightest bit fazed.

“Oh, you can tell time?” His tone was pure mocking, razor-edged. “What’s next, the days of the week? Maybe the months too, if we’re really lucky.”

Mike shut the door behind him with more force than necessary. “Harvey, I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Harvey tossed back a swallow, ignoring the scratch clawing at his throat. “I wish you were as dedicated to your work as you are to this.”

Mike’s eyes narrowed, but there was that flicker—concern disguised as irritation—that Harvey both resented and relied on. He wanted to roll his eyes, to say something sharp enough to put distance between them, but his chest tightened suddenly. A cough threatened to break loose.

He turned slightly, covering it with the rim of his glass. Whiskey burned down his throat, swallowing the fit before it could escape. He felt Mike’s gaze linger, suspicious.

“You okay?” Mike asked, softer now.

“Of course I’m okay,” Harvey said too quickly, straightening, setting the glass down with a sharp clink against the desk. “You think I can’t handle a little whiskey before breakfast?”

Mike frowned. “Most people don’t need whiskey before breakfast.”

Harvey smirked, hiding the unease that clawed at him. “Good thing I’m not most people. And I don’t need it, I want it. ”

He reached for the file in Mike’s hand, brushing past him like the conversation was over. But even as he flipped it open, the warmth of Mike’s stare pressed against him, irritating and comforting all at once.

At last, Mike sighed. “Fine. But you’re not off the hook yet. We’re talking about this later.”

Harvey gave him a dismissive wave, already turning to the file again. “Sure, kid. I’ll put it on the calendar. Right after I solve world hunger.”

Mike shot him a look, then finally left, the door swinging shut behind him.

Harvey’s shoulders sagged the instant he was alone again. 

Chapter Text

The illness was progressing quicker than he expected. Harvey could no longer go to office without attracting unwanted attention from everyone and concerned glances from Mike and Donna.

He worked from home now. Delegating all his leg work to Mike, who was happy to do it.

“Don’t worry about anything, just focus on resting and recovery. I’ll handle everything else.” Mike had said without a beat when Harvey informed him. And that made it difficult to breathe for Harvey more than the petals in his lungs. It would absolutely break Mike if he heard the truth, it was just a bad flu as far as Mike knew.

The distance only made Harvey yearn for him more. It was only his second day of doing work from home but he already missed Mike.

How had he, the lone wolf, become so dependent on Mike?

His jaw clenched. Goddamn kid.

Mike Ross, with his too-big heart and too-blue eyes. With his endless idealism, his stubborn morality, his way of looking at Harvey like he wasn’t just some heartless bastard in a thousand-dollar suit but—worse—like he was worth something.

Damn you for caring too much. For melting my goddamn heart. For softening it so much it’s sprouting fucking flower petals.

He hated it. Hated the way his chest tightened not just with the disease but with the ache of wanting. He’d built his whole career, his whole life, on being untouchable, even he wouldn’t believe he has a heart. And now? Now he was choking on petals because some wide-eyed fraud with a genius brain and a crooked smile had made him feel.

Damn you for making me weak. For making me hopeless. For making me helpless. For making me—

Harvey’s fist slammed the desk, rattling a glass of scotch he hadn’t touched.

Damn you for making me human.

The bitterness curled in his chest, but it wasn’t enough to smother the truth. He wanted Mike. God help him, he wanted him, and it was going to kill him.

Harvey stared at the glowing screen, eyes hard, throat raw. A petal, half-crushed, saliva covered petal, stuck to a tissue on his desk, a reminder he couldn’t escape.

The words on the pages blurred as the coughing started again, and this time he didn’t bother stifling the sound, because he was all alone. At least no one could hear him breaking.

🌸

After work hours, every single moment of solitude dragged Harvey’s mind to a dark, negative place. Questions about existentialism, purpose of life, worth of his own life, it all made however many remaining days much less bearable.

🌸

He had been working from home for three days now, and though the official line was that he was “resting up”–Donna knew better.

Silence clung to the apartment, the kind of silence that pressed against the walls and demanded company. She was the first to break it.

Donna showed up around noon on the third day. She breezed in without asking, dropped a bag of takeout on his counter, and started unpacking containers. “Because I know you,” she said when he raised a brow. “And I know you’ve been living on scotch and whiskey.”

They ate together at the table, Donna filling the silence with updates about Louis’s latest meltdown—this time over the color of the binders. “He wants every folder to be lavender now,” she said, rolling her eyes. “According to some study, it ‘calms the mind.’ Half the floor looked ready to strangle him.”

Harvey smirked faintly. “Sounds about right.”

“And Jessica,” Donna continued, “has been circling Mike like a hawk. Not saying anything, but you know she’s waiting for him to screw up big enough to swoop in.”

“That isn't happening any time soon.”

Donna smiled at him across the table, but her eyes lingered a little too long, scanning his face. She didn’t comment, though, knowing how defensive Harvey got if anyone asked.

🌸

Day Four, she came with a stack of files. “Someone has to make sure you actually work and aren’t slacking off.” 

Harvey arched a brow. “Remind me, between you and I, who’s the boss, again?”

“It’s Jessica. And I doubt that you’ve opened your laptop for more than Netflix.”

He smirked, but she wasn’t wrong. Working at home wasn’t the same. No Donna, no Mike, and surprisingly Louis’ antics were a big part of his working hours.

He spread the files across the table. Donna commented on Louis and Norma fighting, Mike’s efficiency, how Jessica’s surprise visit to the bullpen made the associates tremble. It almost felt like the office—almost. Halfway through, Harvey excused himself to refill his glass of whiskey. Donna’s eyes followed him. She didn’t press, but the crease between her brows deepened. When he returned, she continued as if nothing happened, “Mike’s been covering your workload, Anderson was asking about him. He’s good, Harvey. You chose right.”

“I always do,” Harvey said, though his tone came out sharper than he intended. Donna let it slide.

🌸

By Day Five, Donna didn’t bother with excuses. She came in, set down two coffees, and fixed him with a look. “You can keep pretending with everyone else,” she said, voice low, steady, “but not me.”

Harvey tried to smirk, to deflect, but the weight of her gaze pinned him in place. For the first time, he looked away first. Donna didn’t ask the question out loud. She didn’t have to. The silence between them said enough. She reached across the table, squeezed his hand once, then let go.“Jessica wants you back as soon as possible,” she said, her tone lighter again, “but until then, you’ve got me. And Mike. So don’t shut us out.”

He didn’t respond.

She stood, gathering her bag. “See you tomorrow, Harvey.” When the door closed, Harvey exhaled slowly. Alone again. But this time, the silence didn’t feel quite as absolute. Donna knew more than she was saying. And that was both terrifying—and oddly, relieving.

🌸

Day six.

The ticking of the clock echoed too loudly. The city lights outside mocked Harvey with their constant brightness, a reminder that the world carried on regardless of whether he was in it or not.

Whiskey dulled the edges of the pain, but it never silenced the thoughts. He hadn’t trusted himself to crack open the codeine, yet. He could power through. Although, with the way his chest ached, sometimes with petals he swallowed back, sometimes with the sheer weight of the futility, the little bottle was tempting him more and more. Harvey Specter, the man who always had an answer, now found himself staring at ceiling and wondering if maybe there was no point to anything at all.

That’s when the knock came.

It wasn’t Donna—she had a spare key and always let herself in, announcing herself. Harvey quickly hid the trash can with petals and tissues, dragged himself up from the couch, and opened the door to find Mike Ross standing there with a sheepish half-smile and a plastic bag dangling from his hand.

“I, uh… had a question about a clause in the Keating merger,” Mike said, voice too casual, eyes too soft, “figured I’d ask you in person instead of blowing up your phone.”

Harvey arched a brow. “You needed to drive all the way across town for that?”

Mike’s grin widened, boyish and unrepentant. “Well… that, and…” he lifted the bag like a peace offering, “chicken soup. My grandma swore by it. Thought it might help.”

Harvey stared at him for a beat, incredulous, before a huff of laughter slipped out. “Have you and Donna divided custody of me amongst yourselves?”

Mike avoided his eyes and brushed past him, heading for the kitchen. He set the bag down, pulling out a steaming container and a spoon. “Sit. You look like crap.”

Harvey bristled out of habit, ready with a retort, but his body betrayed him with another cough, sharp and tearing. Mike was instantly at his side, steadying him with a hand on his arm.

“Jesus, Harvey.” His voice cracked with worry. “Why didn’t you call someone to look after you?”

Harvey took a slow, shaky breath, forcing the fit down with the air. “Because I don’t need to.”

Mike shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he guided him toward the couch. “You don’t have to do everything alone, you know.”

Harvey sank back, watching as Mike fussed with the container, pouring soup into a bowl. He wanted to roll his eyes, to scoff at the whole scene, but his chest clenched again—this time not from the disease, but from something softer, Mike looks so good, in my kitchen, like it’s second nature for him, like he belongs here.

Mike pressed the bowl into his hands, warm and steady. “Eat.”

And for once, Harvey didn’t argue.

🌸

The next evening unfolded almost the same way.

Harvey had just finished pretending to read a brief—his eyes had slid over the same paragraph six times—when the buzzer went off. He ignored it at first, then came the knock. Two short raps, familiar rhythm.

He didn’t even need to check.

When he opened the door, there was Mike again, leaning on the frame, file in hand and that guilty grin on his face.

“Don’t tell me,” Harvey said flatly. “Another clause you can’t comprehend?”

Mike raised the file defensively. “Hey, this one’s genuinely confusing.”

Harvey arched a brow. “So confusing you had to drive twenty minutes instead of picking up the phone?”

Mike gave a little shrug, unbothered. “I was in the area.”

“You live in Brooklyn, Mike.”

“Yeah, but I was meeting a client here.”

He stepped aside to let him in. “You’re ridiculous.”

Mike grinned, heading straight for the kitchen counter again like this was routine.

He set down the file, fished out a paper bag, and held it up. “Also, you were out of those fancy lozenges last time, so I grabbed some. Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

“Is this what they teach you associates? How to harass your boss under the guise of concern for their health?”

Mike shrugged again, eyes crinkling at the corners. “No, that’s all me.”

Harvey rolled his eyes but didn’t push him away. He leaned back on the couch, letting Mike flip through the file and ramble about merger conditions, none of which actually required Harvey’s attention. He pretended to listen, tossing in the occasional “uh-huh” or “okay” just to keep up appearances.

But what he was really doing was breathing. For the first time all day, it didn’t feel like he had to fight for air.

Mike’s voice filled the space so easily—bright, familiar, alive. It distracted him from the ache in his ribs, from the quiet dread that had become his nightly companion.

After a while, Mike gathered the papers back into the folder. “Okay, you were right. It wasn’t that complicated.”

Harvey smirked. “You don’t say.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Well, I’m here already, so I’ll count this as a wellness check.”

Harvey said nothing, just raised his glass in mock salute.

Mike lingered a moment longer, searching his face, then nodded to himself. “You look better than last time.”

“You were here yesterday,” Harvey drawled, but there was a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

Mike grinned. “My presence clearly has healing properties. You’re welcome, by the way.”

You have no idea, kid. He thought. But what he said instead was—

“Yeah, sure. I’ll make sure to recommend you to other patients.”

Mike’s grin only widened, he got up as he finished packing up his bag, hanging around awkwardly.

Harvey took pity, “What are your plans for the night?”

“No plans!” Mike said a little too enthusiastically. “Just going back to my good old apartment.” He made pitiful eyes at Harvey, who rolled his eyes at Mike in return.

“Wanna watch a movie?” Harvey asked, already knowing the answer was going to be yes.

They watched Top Gun, with Mike doing the terrible impression of every character. Harvey’s coughing interrupted them quite a few times, which they both pointedly ignored.

But when the door shut and the silence settled again, it didn’t hurt as much as it used to. The apartment didn’t feel quite so heavy.

He let himself sit back, lips curving faintly upward.

The flowers might still be growing in his lungs, but for the first time in days, Harvey thought—maybe, there was still something left worth breathing for.

🌸

The cough had grown sharper overnight, scraping at his throat like sandpaper. When it finally tore loose, Harvey pulled the trash can close. The sound that left him wasn’t just a cough—it was a choked, guttural noise that left him trembling. He gagged, mucus drooling out of his exhausted mouth into the can.

When he spat, it wasn’t a petal this time.

It was a whole flower.

A tiny forget-me-not.

Pale blue, impossibly fragile, its stem wet and curled, like it had no business existing outside of his lungs. Harvey stared at it, chest still hitching, eyes burning. The name alone was a cosmic joke. Forget-me-not. As if his body was mocking him for trying.

He crumpled it with the tissue, jaw locked. He didn’t need a goddamn reminder. He already knew.

By the time Mike showed up that evening, Harvey had composed himself—face schooled into something almost normal. Mike, of course, wasn’t fooled.

“Jesus, Harvey. You look like shit.”

“Nice to see you too.”

Mike ignored the bite. He was already unpacking something from his messenger bag—a folder, a takeout box, and, inexplicably, a small packet of lemon tea. “You should try this. Donna said it helps with sore throats.”

“How long are we gonna do this?” Harvey muttered, sinking back into the couch.

Mike pretended not to hear. “So, about the Keating deposition tomorrow—”

“Sit down, Mike.”

Mike blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his tone. Harvey gestured toward the couch across from him.

“You don’t have to bring me fake case questions every day just to check if I’m still alive.”

Mike froze mid-motion, file halfway open. “What? I—I just need—”

Harvey cut him off with a faint smile. “I know what you thought. And you’re wrong. I’m fine.”

That was, of course, a lie. His throat burned with every swallow, and there was a heaviness in his chest that no amount of pretending could hide. His ribs ached with the echoes of the thousands of fits that had wracked them. But, if he kept Mike around any longer, he wasn’t sure he could keep his composure.

Then, as if the universe wanted to twist the knife, Mike’s phone started ringing.

Rachel.

Her name lit up bright on the screen, cheerful and alive.

Mike’s face softened as he looked at it—instinctive, automatic. He hesitated, glanced at Harvey, then back at the phone. “I’ll, uh, call her back later.”

Harvey forced his voice to stay even. “No, take it.”

“But—”

“Seriously, Mike.” He waved a hand, dismissive, but his throat ached with the effort. “Go. I need to rest anyway.”

Mike frowned, still unsure. “You sure?”

“Positive. I’ll still be here tomorrow for your next fake emergency.”

That earned a reluctant grin. “See you tomorrow.”

“Do you have to?” Harvey grumbled, even though it was the only time of the day that mattered, the time when Mike visited.

“I’m not that easy to get rid off.”

Mike smiled, finally picking up the call, walking toward the door as he answered. “Hey, Rach. Yeah, I’m just leaving Harvey’s place. No, he’s fine—just being Harvey.”

The door clicked shut.

And just like that, the room emptied of air again.

Harvey sat still for a long time, the faint echo of Mike’s voice still bouncing around in his mind. He pressed a hand to his chest—his heart was beating too fast, too painfully.

When the next cough came, he didn’t fight it. He leaned over the bin again, choking until another small blue flower landed in it, its petals trembling.

A bitter laugh caught in his throat.

“Forget-me-not,” he whispered hoarsely. “Yeah, no chance of that.”

🌸

It was supposed to be a quiet morning. Harvey had just managed to keep down some coffee when another cough tore through him—harsher, deeper, dragging him to the edge of the sink again. By the time it passed, his throat burned raw, and another forget-me-not slipped from his mouth. Tiny, perfect, cruel.

He wrapped it in tissue and tossed it into the trash. He told himself he’d take it out later. He told himself he’d remember. But his body ached, his head pounded, and eventually, he drifted off on the couch, laptop still glowing beside him.

When he woke up, Mike was there again.

Harvey didn’t even hear the door this time. The kid had somehow mastered breaking into his penthouse under the noble guise of “checking in.” He was in the kitchen now, unpacking sandwiches and another round of that lemon tea.

“You know,” Harvey rasped, voice hoarse, “there’s a thing called knocking.”

“I did knock,” Mike said over his shoulder. “You didn’t answer. I figured maybe you fell asleep or something.”

Harvey glared weakly. “You figured wrong.”

Mike smirked, pouring hot water into a mug like he owned the place. “Right. And maybe, it was me who was snoring.”

He moved around the apartment like it was second nature now—dropping files, making small talk, complaining about Louis. Harvey tried to tune him out, but there was something grounding about the sound of his voice, the unbothered rhythm of it. Like Mike’s presence alone could hold the walls up.

Harvey might’ve even started to breathe easier—until Mike’s words cut through:

“Whoa. Someone sent you flowers?”

The words hit him like a gunshot.

Harvey’s gaze snapped up. Mike was standing by the trash can, brow raised, holding one of the wilted forget-me-nots between two fingers.

“I didn’t know people actually gave you bouquets,” Mike teased lightly. “Secret admirer?”

For one terrifying second, Harvey couldn’t speak. His brain scrambled for logic, excuse, anything. The air caught sharp in his throat.

He managed a laugh, short and brittle. “Yeah, something like that.”

Mike smiled, completely unaware. “Nice choice, though. Forget-me-nots. Kind of poetic. Didn’t think your type went for sentimental stuff.”

“Maybe they don’t know my type.” Harvey forced the smirk, his mask slipping into place just in time.

Mike set the flower down on the counter, shaking his head. “Well, whoever they are, they’ve got guts. Sending flowers to Harvey Specter? That’s bold.”

Harvey swallowed hard, hiding the tremor in his hands by reaching for the mug. “Yeah. Bold.”

Mike leaned against the counter, arms folded, grinning. “So are you gonna tell me who it is?”

“Nope.”

“Come on.”

“Nope.”

Mike laughed, that boyish sound that never failed to hit Harvey somewhere deep in the ribs. “Fine, keep your secrets. But I’m impressed. Didn’t think anyone could break through that armor.”

Harvey raised his glass to his lips, forcing a steady breath. “You’d be surprised what people are capable of.”

Mike’s smile softened at that, and for a moment, Harvey almost forgot to breathe. The look in those blue eyes—so open, so unguarded—it made everything in him twist.

He had to look away. “You should get going, Mike. You’ve got work, and I need to—rest.”

Mike frowned but nodded, still watching him. “Alright. But next time you get mystery flowers, you better tell me who they’re from.”

“I’ll make sure to put you on the press list.”

Mike laughed again, that same bright, infuriating sound, and headed for the door.

When the lock clicked shut, Harvey exhaled shakily. He glanced at the counter, at the single blue flower lying there, a smear of yellow pollen on the marble.

He closed his eyes.

“Secret admirer,” he snorted under his breath, voice cracking.

Chapter Text

 That night, the silence felt heavier than usual.

Harvey sat on the edge of his bed, half-dressed, staring at the space where Mike had stood hours ago. The empty glass on his nightstand still smelled faintly of lemon tea — Mike’s doing, obviously. The kid probably thought he was helping.

He was.

That was the worst part.

The warmth had lingered longer this time. Mike’s laughter, his voice, the goddamn way he filled the apartment with life — it all left traces. The moment the door closed, everything felt colder, quieter, emptier.

Harvey tilted his head back, exhaling through his nose. His chest ached with that now-familiar burn. He pressed a hand against it, as if he could physically stop it from tearing through.

But the cough came anyway.

It started as a dry rasp, then built, sharp and relentless, until his entire frame was shaking.

He stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the sink, barely making it in time.

The sound was wet this time — a painful, broken choke that left spots dancing in his vision.

When he finally caught his breath and looked down, there they were.

Not petals. Not one bloom.

Three.

Tiny forget-me-nots, their thin stems matted together.

Harvey stared at them, chest heaving, throat raw. There was blood on one petal—a faint smear of red against blue.

Something inside him broke a little at the sight.

He’d told himself he could control it. That he could suppress it, out think it, outwork it.

But his body had other plans.

His knees almost gave as he bent down, carefully picking up the flowers with tremorous hands. 

He rinsed the sink, flushed it away, then sank to the floor beside it.

For a long time, he just sat there, head resting against the cabinet, eyes closed.

He thought of Mike — his laugh, his questions, the stupid excuses to visit, the way he always found a reason to stay.

Harvey had been alone his entire life, and it never used to scare him. Solitude had been a choice, a shield. But now… now it felt like a sentence.

He touched his throat again, half-expecting to feel the petals there.

It wouldn’t be long now — he could feel it. The vines were growing, slow and sure, winding around his lungs like ivy.

The room was quiet, save for his uneven breathing. Outside, the city kept moving, life continuing as if nothing was falling apart.

He closed his eyes, the ache blooming in his chest like a warning.

Mike will be here again tomorrow.

And Harvey wasn’t sure how much longer he could hide this.

🌸

Mike didn’t mean to notice at first.

He’d been telling himself Harvey was fine — that the cough was easing, that the dark circles were just from lack of sleep, that the way Harvey’s voice rasped on every other word was just… temporary.

But it wasn’t.

It had been three weeks. Each visit made it harder to pretend. Harvey’s complexion had gone pale, almost gray instead of his healthy tan, eyes sunken but still defiant. The veins in his hands looked bluer than they used to.

And the cough.

God, the cough wouldn’t stop once it started.

Tonight, it hit harder than before. They were mid-conversation — or rather, Mike was mid-rant about some idiotic client — when Harvey doubled over, coughing into his fist so violently that the sound made Mike flinch.

“Harvey,” he said, stepping closer. “Hey—hey, that’s not—Jesus, sit down.”

“I’m fine,” Harvey managed between breaths, voice shredded and trembling.

“No, you’re not.” Mike reached for his arm, guiding him toward the couch despite Harvey’s weak protest. “You’ve been saying that for three weeks, Harvey. This isn’t the flu, it’s—it’s something worse.”

“Mike—”

“Don’t ‘Mike’ me. Look at you!” His voice cracked. “You’re coughing up a lung every hour, your skin looks pale like a ghost and by the looks of it, it's only getting worse—this isn’t normal.”

Harvey leaned back, jaw tight, eyes darting anywhere but at Mike. “It’s not contagious.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Mike crouched down in front of him, hands clasped together, voice softening. “You need to go back to the doctor. Maybe they missed something. Maybe it’s—”

He stopped when Harvey let out a tired, bitter laugh.

“They didn’t miss anything.”

Mike froze. “…What?”

Harvey exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. The motion looked heavy, too heavy. When he finally spoke again, the words came out quieter than he intended.

“It’s not the flu.”

Mike blinked, confused. “Then what is it?”

Harvey hesitated just long enough for the lie to form, clean and final.

He couldn’t tell Mike the truth — couldn’t tell him about the flowers, about the petals, about the love rotting him from the inside out. That was a cruelty Mike didn’t deserve.

So he said the next worst thing.

“Lung cancer.”

The room went still.

Mike’s expression shifted — confusion, disbelief, then slow, dawning horror. “What?”

“Stage four.” Harvey’s tone was flat, rehearsed, too calm for what he was saying. “It showed itself too late.”

Mike’s lips parted like he was about to argue, to say something rational, but nothing came. It didn’t sound real.

“Okay, no. You’re joking.”

Harvey didn’t even flinch, his eyes fixated on a spot on the carpet.

“That’s—that can’t be—you—you said it was just—Harvey, come on,” Mike tried again, voice shaky. “You’re screwing with me. This is one of those tests, right? You’re trying to see if I’ll crumble under pressure or something?”

When Harvey finally looked up, his eyes were too calm. Too still.

“I’m not joking, Mike.”

Mike’s smile faltered. He tried to laugh again, but it came out brittle.

“Right. Sure. Because you’d just drop that on me like it’s nothing. Stage four? Really?

“I didn’t want to make it a thing,” Harvey interrupted, voice steady but eyes flickering. “Didn’t want anyone hovering or—pitying.”

Mike shook his head. “No. No, this doesn’t make sense. You—you work out every morning. You eat well, you don’t smoke. There’s no way you’re sick, not like that.”

Harvey’s jaw clenched. “There is one, apparently...”

Mike stared at him, stunned. His throat bobbed once before he found his voice again. “Harvey, Jesus Christ—why would you—why wouldn’t you tell me sooner?”

Harvey looked away, staring at the skyline through the glass wall. “Because the way people start looking at you differently when they know, like you are doing now. I don’t want your pity and you knowing won’t change anything, Mike.”

“You expect me to—what? Pretend it’s fine?” Mike shot back, standing abruptly.

“Exactly that.” Harvey’s voice sharpened. “Pretend it’s fine. Do your job. Live your life. Don’t make mine harder than it already is.”

The words hit Mike like a slap. He took a step back, chest heaving, torn between fury and grief.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The sound of Harvey’s uneven breathing filled the space.

Finally, Mike whispered, “You’re not doing this alone.”

Harvey didn’t answer.

Mike waited another moment, eyes burning, “You can push everyone else away if you want. But not me. You’re supposed to fight, Harvey. That’s what you do. You fight the impossible. You win when no one else can. So why are you just—” his voice wavered “—giving up?”

“I told you,” Harvey said, low. “There’s nothing left to fight.”

Mike shook his head, pacing the floor like he could outrun the words.

“No. No, that’s not you. You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to just give up on me—on yourself—and expect me to accept it.” He ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

“Jesus, Harvey…” Mike’s voice cracked. “How long have you known?”

Harvey didn’t answer. He just rubbed at his mouth and set the tissue down, careful, deliberate. Like every movement cost him.

“You should’ve told me sooner,” Mike said, softer now. “We could’ve done something. There’s got to be a treatment—”

“There isn’t.” Harvey cut in, still not looking at him. “It's been in my lungs since before I even realized. It's already all through my lymph nodes and it's only a matter of time before it invades another vital organ and causes failure. The doctors said I’m lucky I can still breathe without a ventilator.”

Mike stared at him, chest heaving. “And you just… accepted that? They probably mixed up the scans or something. You’ll walk into the doctor’s office, tell them they made a mistake, and they’ll realize it was someone else. It happens.”

Harvey didn’t look at him. He stared at the glass of water on the table like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

Mike stared at him, he didn’t recognize the man sitting in front of him anymore. He had never seen Harvey so lost, broken before and he couldn’t take it anymore.

And that—that look—was what broke him.

Mike turned, fists clenching. “You’ve given up.”

Harvey’s eyes flicked toward him, slow, tired. “Mike—”

“No.” Mike’s voice cracked, sharp and raw. “Don’t. You’ve already decided, haven’t you? You’re just gonna—what? Sit here, drink your scotch, wait it out?”

Harvey exhaled, slow. “It’s not that simple.”

“The hell it’s not!” Mike’s voice rose. “You’re Harvey Specter. You take on billion-dollar corporations before breakfast. You stare down judges, attorneys, and soulless billionaires without blinking. And now suddenly you’re—what—fine with dying?”

Harvey flinched, the faintest twitch around his eyes.

“You think this is easy for me?” he said quietly.

Mike took a step closer. “You’ve never even accepted losing in court this easily. This isn’t you. It’s never been you.”

Harvey’s voice dropped, a whisper. “You don’t get it.”

“No,” Mike snapped. “You’re right. I don’t. Because you’re supposed to fight. You always fight. And if you’re not fighting, then what’s left of you?”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Harvey didn’t look at him — just stared at the carpet, jaw tight, breathing shallow. He looked… small. And that, more than anything, sent another wave of fury rolling through Mike.

“This isn’t you,” he scoffed, pacing now, hands running through his hair. “You’re supposed to be the guy who fixes things. You fix everyone else’s mess. And now you can’t even try for your own sake?”

“Mike.” Harvey’s tone sharpened just enough to cut through the noise. He looked up, eyes heavy, voice rough. “What the hell do you want me to say? That I’m scared? That I don’t want to die? Fine. I’m scared. But I can’t fix this. I’ve already tried.”

Mike stared at him, chest heaving. For a second, the anger trembled, cracking into something else—something dangerously close to grief. But he forced it back down.

“Bullshit,” he whispered. “There’s always a way. You always said there's a hundred and forty six ways.”

Harvey stood, slow but steady, stepping closer until they were face to face.

“I’ve made my peace,” he said softly.

Mike’s throat went dry. “Peace?” His voice rose again, breaking on the word. “You don’t get to make peace while the rest of us are still here, Harvey! You don’t get to just leave—”

His voice faltered. His eyes burned.

Harvey’s expression softened — not pity, not sympathy, just that impossible, unbearable calm again.

Mike couldn’t take it. He turned away, shaking his head, jaw tight, voice barely holding.

“Goddamn it, Harvey...”

Harvey didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

The silence said everything.

And for the first time, Mike realized he was angry not just at Harvey — but at himself, for believing the man was invincible.

He left before Harvey could think of something.

The door shut with a soft click.

Mike leaned his head on the wall of the hallway, his mind whirling with anxiety and fear. He can't lose his— Mike struggled to give it a name, 'friend' felt too inadequate. Harvey was his family.

 🌸

Harvey flopped down on the couch, throat burning, lungs aching, eyes fixed on the place where Mike had stood. His lie tasted worse than blood.

He pressed a hand to his chest, and when he coughed again, a pink flower landed wetly on his palm.

 🌸

Mike came back after a few minutes — his eyes were dark, sharp with the kind of determination Harvey had seen a hundred times in court, but never directed at him.

Harvey had been expecting it. He’d known it before he told that lie, Mike wouldn’t just sit quietly and accept it. That wasn’t who he was.

“Let me see them,” Mike said without preamble the moment he walked in.

Harvey pretended he didn’t understand. “See what?”

“The reports.” Mike’s voice was clipped, tight. “Scans, diagnosis, whatever they gave you.”

“Mike—”

“I’m not asking, Harvey.”

For a moment, Harvey said nothing. Then, with a weary sigh, he reached for the folder under the coffee table. He’d prepared it days ago, before the lie had even left his mouth. A contingency plan. Because if there was one thing Harvey Specter knew better than the law, it was Mike Ross’s persistence.

He handed the folder over wordlessly.

Mike snatched it, flipping through the pages. The scan printouts, the neat black-and-white report with the oncologist’s signature, the highlighted sections — everything looked official. It was official. Harvey had used his own contacts to have it made flawless.

Mike’s face went pale as he read the words “Stage IV adenocarcinoma.”

He closed the file slowly, eyes shining with disbelief.

“I still don’t buy it,” he said quietly. “Doctors make mistakes all the time. Misdiagnoses happen. We’ll go for a second opinion. Hell, we’ll go for third and fourth. I’ll take you myself.”

“Mike—”

“No.” Mike’s voice snapped like a whip. “You had your turn to give up. Now it’s mine to fix it.”

“You think I haven’t already done that? You think I didn’t go to every specialist from here to Boston?”

Mike’s jaw clenched. “Then we’ll go again. Maybe they missed something. Maybe there’s a trial, or a doctor who knows something the others don’t. I’ll find them.”

Harvey rubbed his temples, looking tired. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Yeah, I do,” Mike said quietly. “Because if I don’t, and you— I’ll never forgive myself.”

Harvey froze. This is exactly why he hadn’t been telling Mike the truth.

“I can’t just sit here and watch you fade away,” Mike went on, voice cracking. “Not when I know there’s a chance. Even a small one.”

Harvey swallowed hard. “Mike, please—”

But Mike was already gathering the reports.

“There’s nothing left to treat,” Harvey said, exasperated.

“That’s not your call to make!”

“It’s the doctor’s call,” Harvey countered. “And I went to the best one there is.”

Mike stared at him, chest heaving. “Then we’ll find someone better.”

Harvey almost smiled—a small, sad curl of his lips. “There isn’t anyone better.”

Mike ran a hand through his hair, pacing again. “You don’t get to just—give up like this.”

“I’m not giving up.” Harvey’s voice softened, breaking slightly around the edges. “I’m just accepting reality.”

“Since when do you accept anything that doesn’t go your way?” Mike snapped. “You’re Harvey Specter! You don’t lose cases, you don’t lose fights, and now you’re telling me you’re ready to—”

The words hung in the air, raw and trembling.

Harvey’s jaw tightened. He couldn’t meet Mike’s eyes. “Not everything can be won, kid.”

“You can’t know that without trying!”

Silence.

Mike finally sat down opposite him, elbows on his knees, voice quiet but shaking. “You think I’m just gonna watch this happen?”

Harvey swallowed hard, throat tight. “That’s exactly what you’ll do.”

Mike looked up sharply, eyes wet. “The hell I will.”

Their gazes locked—Mike’s full of stubborn devotion, Harvey’s a mask of composure stretched too thin to hide the cracks underneath.

Harvey finally looked away first. “Go home, Mike.”

“No.”

“Mike.”

“No.”

Harvey’s hand clenched into a fist on the armrest. He wanted to shout, to push, to break something—anything—to stop Mike from looking at him like that. Like he was a fragile little thing, like he was going to disappear into thin air if Mike blinked.

But all that came out was a hoarse whisper. “You need to accept it.”

Mike’s voice broke as he said, “I never will.”

The silence that followed felt unbearable. Mike stood, the file still clutched in his hand, and for a second it looked like he had so much to say, to fight Harvey on this.

“I am not gonna rest untill I find something.”

He turned and left with the file.

The door clicked shut, and the quiet came rushing back like a tide around Harvey.