Koda’Dew

Harvey fit right in. At least, that was what everyone assumed.

From across the room he looked perfectly at ease, leaning against the bar with a glass of whiskey in hand, laughing at the appropriate moments, dressed better than everyone else present and fully aware of it.

Nobody ever seemed to notice the tension permanently lodged between his shoulders. Nobody noticed how often his jaw clenched. Nobody noticed that every smile seemed a fraction too sharp around the edges.

Harvey preferred it that way.

The conversation beside him had begun as background noise, the kind he normally tuned out without effort.

"...kid's a freak."

Harvey's attention flickered. "Who?"

"Ross."

His grip tightened around the glass.

"The photographic memory guy. You know the one. Shows up to class looking like he got dressed in the dark and somehow walks away with the highest grade."

A chorus of laughter followed.

Harvey said nothing.

"He creeps me out," another voice added. "Nobody remembers that much. Guy probably spends Friday nights memorizing textbooks for fun."

More laughter.

Ordinarily Harvey would have ignored it. Mike was not exactly lacking in ammunition for people looking to make fun of him. The kid was socially awkward when he forgot himself, talked too fast when he got excited, and possessed the astonishing ability to turn even casual conversation into a lecture if somebody accidentally mentioned a topic he liked.

The problem was that Harvey found all of those things irritatingly endearing. Not that he would ever admit that.

"He acts like he's smarter than everybody else."

"He is smarter than everybody else." The words left Harvey's mouth before he could stop them.

The group turned and one of them barked a laugh.

"Jesus, Specter. Didn't know Ross had a bodyguard."

Harvey took a slow sip of beer. "Didn't know he needed one."

The guy grinned.

"What, you two sharing study dates now?"

A few snickers rippled through the group.

Harvey felt something ugly stir beneath his ribs.

The smart thing would have been to walk away. The smart thing would have been to finish his drink, go back to campus, and forget about the conversation entirely.

Unfortunately, Harvey Specter had never been particularly interested in doing the smart thing when he was angry.

"Ross works harder than any of you," he said coolly. "Which probably explains why he makes the rest of you look stupid."

The grin vanished.

"Or maybe he's just a fucking nerd."

Harvey smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.

"No," he said. "You're thinking of yourself."

The first shove came fast.

Harvey barely felt it.

Months of stress, years of resentment, and more than a little beer surged together inside him like gasoline finding a spark. Before he consciously registered moving, his fist had already connected with someone's jaw.

The room erupted, chairs scraped, someone shouted. Another punch glanced off Harvey's cheekbone hard enough to split skin.

He welcomed the sting.

For a few glorious seconds there was no Harvard, no expectations, no future hanging over his head. There was only movement and impact and the satisfying crack of knuckles against bone.

Some distant part of him knew this had very little to do with Mike anymore.

Maybe it never had.

Because the truth was that Harvey had spent months watching Mike from library tables and lecture halls, finding his gaze lingering far longer than it should. He knew the shape of Mike's laugh. Knew exactly how his face lit up when discussing something he loved. Knew the precise moment concentration made him chew absent-mindedly on the inside of his cheek.

He knew far too much.

And every bit of it sat somewhere beneath his skin, impossible to ignore.

So when someone called Mike Ross a nerd, Harvey threw a punch. When someone called him a freak, Harvey threw another.

And when campus security finally dragged him out of the bar with blood on his mouth and swelling already forming beneath one eye, Harvey found himself wondering, not for the first time, what Mike would say when he saw him.

The answer, as it turned out, was considerably less grateful than Harvey had imagined.

︶⊹︶︶⠀†⠀︶︶⊹︶

The knock came shortly after midnight.

Mike ignored it.

Not because he thought it would go away, but because he was three chapters deep into a constitutional law reading and had reached that peculiar state of exhaustion where words stopped being language and instead became decorative arrangements of letters.

The knock came a third time, louder than before, and Mike finally shoved his reading aside with an irritated groan.

"If this is Trevor," he muttered as he crossed the room, dragging a hand through his curls, "I'm changing my name and transferring to Yale."

The door swung open and the complaint died instantly.

Harvey stood in the hallway looking as though he'd survived a small war.

His rugby jumper hung crookedly from one shoulder. One side of his face was already darkening with a bruise, his lip split and crusted with blood. There was something almost absurd about it, the contrast between Harvard golden-boy Harvey Specter and the fact that he looked like he'd just stumbled out of the world's most violent pub crawl.

For a long moment Mike simply stared.

Harvey, meanwhile, offered him a lopsided grin that immediately ruined whatever sympathy Mike might have been preparing to feel.

"What?" Harvey asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"A ghost would probably be less concerning," Mike replied. His eyes narrowed. "Jesus Christ, Harvey."

Harvey glanced down at himself as though only just remembering his appearance. "Yeah, it looks worse than it is."

Mike barked out a laugh. "It looks like you got hit by a truck."

"That's dramatic."

"Your face is bleeding."

Harvey lifted a hand and touched his lip. When his fingers came away red, he frowned slightly, as though this information was new to him.

"Huh."

"Huh?" Mike repeated incredulously. "That's your reaction?"

The corner of Harvey's mouth twitched. "What would you prefer? Screaming? Crying? A heartfelt monologue?"

"I'd prefer you explain why you look like you lost a cage match."

Something flickered briefly across Harvey's face, not guilt exactly.

Mike knew that expression. It usually meant Harvey had done something incredibly stupid and was attempting to decide whether the story was worth telling.

"Oh, no," Mike said immediately, pointing at him. "That look means you're responsible."

Harvey scoffed. "I resent that."

"You should."

"I wasn't entirely responsible."

Mike folded his arms.

The oversized hoodie swallowed him whole, sleeves hanging over his hands as he leaned against the doorframe. Harvey's gaze lingered for a second longer than it should have before he dragged it away.

"How much of the fight was your fault?" Mike asked.

Harvey considered. "Fifty percent."

Mike stared. "Harvey."

"Fine. Seventy."

"Harvey."

"Okay, maybe eighty."

"Harvey."

Harvey sighed dramatically and pushed past him into the room. "It was one hundred percent my fault."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The dorm felt noticeably smaller with Harvey inside it.

Maybe it was because Harvey always seemed too large for whatever room he occupied. Maybe it was because Mike was suddenly hyperaware that he was standing barefoot in plaid boxers while Harvey looked infuriatingly attractive despite being half covered in blood.

Either way, he hated it.

"Bathroom," Mike ordered, grabbing the first-aid kit from beneath his desk.

Harvey glanced over his shoulder. "What, no hello? No concern for my wellbeing?"

Mike followed him down the short hallway. "Harvey, if you wanted concern for your wellbeing you shouldn't have voluntarily participated in amateur boxing."

"I didn't volunteer."

"Oh, so somebody forced you into it?"

Harvey opened the bathroom door. "No."

"Then you volunteered."

Harvey rolled his eyes but sat obediently on the edge of the bathtub. That more than anything else told Mike he was hurt.

Normal Harvey would've argued. Normal Harvey would've spent ten minutes negotiating his way out of basic medical treatment.

This Harvey merely leaned back against the tiled wall and watched as Mike rummaged through the first-aid kit.

The fluorescent light overhead illuminated every scrape and bruise. Up close, the damage looked worse.

Mike's annoyance softened despite himself. "Idiot," he muttered.

Harvey's eyes lifted. There was something unexpectedly fond in the insult, something that made his chest feel strange.

"You know," Harvey drawled, watching Mike soak a cotton pad with antiseptic, "most people would start by asking if I'm okay."

Mike snorted. "Most people don't know you."

"That's hurtful."

"It's accurate."

Harvey laughed quietly and the sound echoed slightly off the bathroom tiles.

Mike hated how much he liked that laugh. Hated it even more when he stepped between Harvey's knees to inspect the cut on his lip and found Harvey already looking at him. Not at his eyes.

At his mouth.

The realization landed like a punch, neither of them acknowledged it. Neither of them moved. For one strange second the bathroom felt entirely too small.

Then Mike pressed the antiseptic against Harvey's split lip. Harvey hissed immediately.

"There he is," Mike said with satisfaction, unable to suppress a grin. "I was beginning to think you didn't actually have nerve endings."

"Oh, shut up."

"I'm serious. You walked in here looking like a homicide victim and acted mildly inconvenienced."

Harvey caught Mike's wrist before he could pull away. Mike froze.

"So you're saying you're worried about me?"

The bastard actually looked pleased. Mike stared at him. Then, very deliberately, he dabbed harder against the cut.

Harvey swore.

Mike smiled sweetly. "There's your answer."

Mike had reached the point in the proceedings where his irritation had transformed into concentration.

Harvey could always tell the difference.

When Mike was annoyed, he talked. He complained. He launched into lengthy tirades that somehow managed to be both intelligent and deeply exasperated. Concentrated Mike, however, became quieter. His brows drew together slightly, his mouth settling into a thin line as he worked, entirely unaware of the fact that Harvey found the expression unbearably distracting.

At present, Mike was crouched in front of him with a bottle of antiseptic balanced precariously on the edge of the sink, examining the cut near Harvey's eyebrow as though it were a particularly complicated legal case.

"You know," Harvey remarked, watching him through one half-swollen eye, "for somebody who spent the last twenty minutes telling me what an idiot I am, you're being surprisingly gentle."

Mike snorted without looking up.

"That's because if I leave a scar on your face, you'll somehow find a way to blame me for it ten years from now."

"I would never."

"You absolutely would."

Harvey smiled faintly.

Mike noticed immediately and shook his head, muttering something beneath his breath that sounded suspiciously like unbelievable.

The smile only widened.

"Hold still."

"I am holding still."

"You're literally not."

Before Harvey could formulate a defence, Mike reached forward and threaded his fingers into the hair at the back of Harvey's head, gripping just firmly enough to keep him from moving while he inspected the wound.

The gesture was practical. Entirely practical. At least, that was undoubtedly Mike's intention.

Unfortunately, Harvey's brain had never been particularly cooperative where Mike goddamn Ross was concerned.

The warmth of Mike's hand settled at the nape of his neck and remained there, fingers disappearing into dark hair as he tilted Harvey's head slightly to the side. The position forced Harvey to look up at him, and suddenly he found himself far more interested in the person patching him up than the injuries themselves.

Mike was still wearing the same oversized Harvard hoodie he'd answered the door in, sleeves pushed halfway over his hands.

His hair was a mess, flattened on one side from where he'd presumably been lying on his bed reading, and there was something almost painfully domestic about the sight of him standing in the harsh bathroom light at midnight, muttering to himself while tending to somebody else's wounds.

Harvey couldn't stop looking. Perhaps he should have. Perhaps any sensible person would have. But Harvey had never really claimed to be sensible.

Eventually Mike noticed the prolonged silence and glanced up.

Their eyes met immediately. Neither of them looked away.

Mike's hand remained tangled in Harvey's hair and Harvey's knees brushed either side of the younger man's legs.

Somewhere down the hall a door closed, but the sound felt impossibly distant.

Mike swallowed.

Harvey watched him do it.

His gaze dropped almost involuntarily, tracing the movement before settling, quite accidentally and then not accidentally at all, on Mike's mouth.

He became aware, in the way one becomes aware of gravity, that Mike was close enough to kiss.

The thought arrived uninvited. Worse still, it stayed.

When Harvey looked back up, he discovered Mike watching him with an expression he couldn't quite decipher. There was uncertainty there. Curiosity. Something softer than either of them usually allowed themselves.

Harvey could feel his own pulse beating steadily beneath his skin. He could feel Mike's fingers against the back of his neck. He could feel the weight of a hundred things left unsaid gathering between them like storm clouds.

And before he had properly decided to do it, before conscious thought had fully caught up with instinct, he found himself leaning forward.

Not much, barely enough to notice. The smallest reduction of distance.

Yet Mike noticed.

Harvey knew he did because Mike's eyes flickered downward for the briefest moment. To his mouth.

The realization landed somewhere deep in Harvey's chest. For one reckless second he genuinely thought Mike might meet him halfway.

Then Mike blinked, as though waking abruptly from a dream. "Oh, God."

Harvey froze.

Mike's eyes squeezed shut for half a second before he shook his head and let out a breathless laugh. "You know what this is?"

Harvey stared at him.

"What?"

Without missing a beat, Mike reached for another cotton pad and said, "This is exactly like The Treasure of the Sierra Madre."

Harvey frowned. "The what?"

"The Treasure of the Sierra Madre."

Mike stepped back slightly, and the movement felt strangely disappointing.

"Humphrey Bogart. Gold prospectors. Entirely avoidable disaster caused by men making progressively worse decisions because they think they're smarter than everybody else."

Harvey's brow furrowed. "That's an incredibly niche reference."

"Thank you."

"No, seriously."

"I'm a film nerd."

"You're twenty-one years old."

"And?"

"And nobody our age has seen that movie."

Mike pointed the antiseptic-soaked cotton pad at him. "I have."

"Of course you have."

The familiar rhythm returned immediately, settling over them like a lifeline. Harvey could practically feel them both grabbing hold of it, retreating toward safer ground.

Mike, perhaps deciding that Harvey looked altogether too pleased with himself, pressed firmly against the bruise along his cheek.

Pain exploded across Harvey's face.

"Goddamn it—"

"There we go," Mike said with obvious satisfaction. "I was wondering when reality was going to catch up with you."

Harvey glared up at him while Mike attempted—and failed—to suppress a grin.

The moment had passed. Or perhaps it hadn't. Perhaps it had merely shifted shape, settling quietly beneath the surface where neither of them would acknowledge it.

Either way, when Mike reached forward again to continue cleaning the cuts on his face, Harvey found himself sitting unusually still, and Mike found himself unusually careful.