Chapter Text
He wasn’t supposed to be in the warehouse that night. No, Mike was supposed to be home studying for the law exam that wasn’t his. He was supposed to be trying to make something of himself. Instead he was following Trevor through a massive crowd of screaming people, most drunk, the rest slowly joining them. He’d gone with Trevor to a pot exchange in hopes of protecting him. They’d gotten out without much trouble, but then of course, that wasn’t enough for Trevor. He needed to prove something, whatever it was Mike didn’t know. Maybe he was just insecure about his dick size or something. All Mike knew is he was in a warehouse, without the little X on his hand and no ticket to save his ass from the bouncers he knew were bound to find them.
Adrenaline was by far becoming his favorite drug. His heart was racing, pulse hammering under his skin as he waded through the crowd after Trevor, who was trying to get closer to the center of the room. Mike didn’t even know what was going on. The music was too dull for it to be a rave, and it wasn’t a club. It was a warehouse filled to bursting with people, that was it. Trevor tugged him forward, out of sight of a nearby bouncer who was making his rounds and Mike stumbled forward, mere feet from the center of the room, where a large platform stood, framed by red cables and bathed in fluorescent lights.
Mike had never been to a boxing match before. A few of Grammie’s friends at the home watched them, and he’d settle down with them so they’d have company. But he’d never stopped to watch it closely. He’d never bothered to dish out the extra money for a ticket to a live fight. That had always been Trevor’s thing, the violence, the blood stains on the fabric, the thud of gloves hitting muscle and bone. He’d always thought it too much, not something to glorify, just people brutally beating the shit out of each other.
He realized in that moment he’d been wrong.
The two men seemed larger than life. Blue Trunks was tall and heavy, muscles defined like an old world sculpture. His braids were tight against his skull, pulled back from his face, a scar trailing along the right side of his jaw. He was quick on his feet, bouncing on his soles, moving around the ring with ease, throwing a left and a right and moving in for the kill. He was a brawler, wild shots in the air, full of power, and Mike was sure if they made contact they could break bone.
Red Shorts was blond and gorgeous. He was shorter than his opponent but not by much. His skin was flushed red and slick with sweat, his movements deliberate and carefully timed and placed. He was a man of strategy, his eyes fixed on his opponent and not once glancing away. Mike felt his chest tighten as he watched him, the way it did when the light hit Trevor just right and he looked like the boy he loved, before the drugs and the trouble. Red Shorts took a hit, a heavy blow to his ribs and Mike could already imagine the beautiful bloom of discolored skin the next morning. Another hit to the bicep, a quick dodge and Red Shorts struck back, a series of quick jabs to his opponent’s abdomen, causing him to stumble. The bell rang and they broke apart to breath, retreating to their corners.
Mike watched Red Shorts stalk across the ring, chest heaving with labored breaths. His blond hair was cut short, his bangs sticking to his sweaty forehead. The bruises on his ribs were already starting to form as his coach and medic patched up a small cut on his forehead and checked to see if his nose was broken. From what Mike could see it wasn’t, just bruised. Red Shorts was quick, he’d been able to dodge all the face shot Blue Trunks had thrown with surprising ease. The crowd around him erupted in another series of cheers, nothing he could discern, but Red Shorts raised a gloved hand and waved to them, so Mike figured it had been directed at him.
He had a smile that made Mike’s breath catch. He could barely feel Trevor’s hand on his as he stared at Red Shorts, smiling as he got to his feet with all the gorgeous confidence in the world, and went to face his opponent for the last round. Nothing else seemed to matter in that moment, as their gloves touched and the shots started coming. Mike stayed rooted to the spot, staring in awe at the man crowned in gold and blinding light.
“Mike come on!” Trevor shouted, pulling him sharply. Mike turned to look behind them. A Bouncer had spotted them and was making his way over.
“Shit.”
He tore his eyes away from the ring and dashed after Trevor, fighting his way through the screaming crowd. It was chaos, drunken and disorderly chaos as they ran, Trevor making for the exit, Mike being forced back to the center of the room. He took off in the other direction heading for the only door he could see, hoping the bouncers had lost sight of him in the crowd. More screams and cheers as the fight continued and Mike fought the urge to stop and see what had happened. Had Red Shorts been hurt? Had he won?
Giving into the urge, Mike twisted around to look, only to see red mixing with the blonde crown. He felt his stomach clench and his mouth go dry. He didn’t care. This guy brought this on himself, Mike didn’t even know him, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was saving his own ass. Red Shorts would be fine. He had to be fine.
Mike slipped through the crowd towards the unguarded door and crept inside without much trouble. He’d lost Trevor for sure, the dick was probably out on the street already, home free, ready to go find Jenny and kiss her stupid and forget he had left Mike in the hellhole of a warehouse. He’d wake up the next morning and think, ‘hey I wonder if Mike made breakfast’. And when he found their apartment empty, that’s when he’d realize he’d left him behind. Again.
He didn’t stop running until he found himself in the locker room. It was empty, his footsteps echoing around him. He should be safe for now. He dropped onto one of the benches to catch his breath. Hopefully this was one of the unused locker rooms or at least he’d be able to make a break before someone came in and mistook him for a stalker. If he was caught, he prayed it would at least be someone understanding, someone who knew what it was like to be completely in love with an asshole.
Footsteps sounded and Mike felt the panic overwhelm him again. He jumped up from the bench and rushed to find a hiding place. The fifth grader in him said go for the lockers, and as the loud voices and footsteps grew closer, he went for the lockers. Grateful for being thin, Mike crawled into one of the nearby lockers and shut the door, covering his mouth. He closed his eyes and fought not to hold his breath.
“You need to be more careful,” a woman’s voice chided.
“Occupational Hazard, Donna.” A man replied. He sounded winded and hoarse. The other voices Mike had heard were gone, the door opening and the roar of the crowd meeting his ears, before it faded as the door closed. “You know that this kind of shit happens.”
“It shouldn’t happen this often,” The woman, Donna, chided. She was exasperated, from the tone of her voice. The man chuckled. Mike could see them moving through the slots in the Locker door. Well, he could see the woman, Donna. She had thick beautiful red hair that hung around her face, which was starting to show the faintest signs of age.
“I won, Donna. I’m fine. It’s a scratch and some bruises. I’ll be fine in the morning.”
“You scared me.”
A sigh. What sounded like a kiss.
“You worry too much.”
“Someone has to worry about your sorry ass, Harvey.” She chuckled. “Get changed. The press has had their time, you can probably hightail it out the back if you want. Be good until tomorrow. I’ll swing by after one, okay?”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Goodnight, Chekov.”
“Kirk.”
“Whatever.” And with the sharp tattoo of her heels, Donna took her leave.
Mike held his breath as he listened this Harvey guy move around the Locker room. He couldn’t see him clearly, little flashes of movement as he pulled off the wrapping on his hands and hummed to himself, occasionally hissing in pain. When he moved closer and opened the locker three doors down from where Mike was hiding, Mike held his breath and closed his eyes. He pressed himself as close to the back of the locker as he could, his feet slipping on the supplies that littered the floor of the locker. He slipped on a can of odor spray and grabbed the locker wall for support, the loud bang of his hand on metal echoing around him.
Shit.
He held his breath as he listened to the locker door close, to slow, uneasy footsteps make their way to his locker. The light filtering through the slots in the door was blocked as the man, this Harvey, stood in front of the door and peered in, eyebrow arched in question. Mike could see that much, he just hoped a scowl wasn’t accompanying it. A sigh met his ears and the door opened.
Red Shorts stared at him, amused. A dark gash lined his left eyebrow, slowly starting to scab around the little white tabs pressed over it. Dried blood was stuck to his cheekbone and jaw, hair sticking up every which way, the gold strands stained with blood from his head wound. The bruise Mike had predicted was already in bloom on his right ribs, his abs bruised as well, but not to the point of injury. His dark eyes were fixed on Mike, scanning his face, that Mike was sure had ended up contorted in fear. It was all he could do to stare back and remember to breathe.
“You’re not supposed to be in here, kid,” Red Shorts said in a low, laughing voice. It made Mike shiver, the roughness of it in his throat surprising him.
“I-I’m sorry,” Mike stammered.
“Please tell me you aren’t here for an autograph.” Red Shorts was smiling, a little smirk that reminded Mike of a cat with a mouse in it’s jaws.
“I-I’m not sir.”
A chuckle. “Good. Get out.” Red Shorts stepped to the side to let Mike out of the locker, reaching up to scratch at the gash over his eye.
“Your face is bleeding.” Mike commented, still wedged in the locker. He noted the drop of blood trying to work it’s way from the man’s nose, the gash on his head reopened under his anxious and shaking fingers.
“I know.”
“Like, kind of a lot.”
“Goodnight, Kid.” Red Shorts ushered him out of the locker. Mike climbed out and tried to make it graceful, instead of stumbling around on shaky legs.
“You aren’t gonna turn me into security?” he asked, stretching and glancing around the locker room. They were alone, no bouncers and cops waiting to grab him.
“Do I need to?”
“No!” his reply came out more panicked than he’d meant it too.
Red Shorts regarded him with an almost fond expression, though Mike could see the amusement and pity mixed in with it. He leaned back against the lockers, tanned and well defined body on display, bruised and a little bit bloodied and everything Mike did not need to be thinking about when he could easily be hauled off to jail at any given moment.
“You want to tell me why you were hiding in the locker...”
“M-Mike.”
“Mike,” Red Shorts nodded. “If you aren’t a stalker my lockers are an odd place to be hiding.”
“I’m not a stalker, dude, I just,” Mike sighed and rubbed his face in frustration. “My douchebag friend snuck us in here without tickets and the bouncers caught us and he just... He fucking bolted without me and I panicked and thought I could hide here until I got a chance to sneak out.”
“Why did you follow him in here in the first place, if you hated the idea so much?”
Because he was in love with someone who could care less about him. Someone who used him as a scapegoat time and time again, who abused his trust and stole his things, but always promised he’d do better, be better, be his. Under the careful scrutiny of Red Shorts’ dark gaze Mike felt the weight of it double on his shoulders. He felt pathetic, standing in front of this boxer, this champion no doubt, who could probably get any damn girl he wanted just by flashing a smile and flexing his arm, while Mike couldn’t even be loved by the only person he wanted.
“You ever care about someone so much, that no matter what stupid shit they pull, you end up following them into it against all your better judgement?” he asked, voice small and pathetic in the open, echoing room. His gaze, having been fixed on his shoes, lifted to Red Shorts’ face when a heavy sigh met his ears.
“Yeah, I know how that goes,” Red Shorts said gently, his rough voice tinged with a hint of regret. He looked away, the blood from his eyebrow trickling down the bridge of his nose, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“You want help with that?” Mike asked. “The blood, I mean,” he added when Red Shorts frowned at him.
“Oh, uh, yeah sure.” Red Shorts dropped onto one of the benches with a sigh, rubbing his hands together. Mike took the first aid kit sitting by Red Shorts’ bag and knelt down in front of him. The Boxer’s hands were shaking, gnarled and swollen and discolored. His whole body was trembling, minute little shivers that almost went unnoticed. Coming off of adrenaline was a bitch, especially when it was the only thing keeping you on your feet. Mike could sympathize, it sucked. He took the gauze and pressed it carefully to Red Shorts’ eyebrow, apologizing at the hiss of pain. Cleaning the blood off his nose was tricky, Mike trying to gauge how much pressure was too much. It didn’t help that the boxer’s eyes were fixed on him, pupils blown, focused intently on Mike’s eyes, his lips, whatever it was that he seemed to find so interesting.
“There. Don’t pick at it,” Mike said, sitting back on his heels. “It’s not as bad as the blood makes it look.”
“It never is.”
Mike nodded. “Right.” He got to his feet and packed the kit. “So you’re not going to call the cops on me?”
“If I were, they’d be here already.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“I know.”
Awkward silence.
“Did you win?”
The boxer smiled. “Knocked him flat on his ass.”
“He ok?”
“Probably.”
“Congrats, Red Shorts.”
He laughed. “Red Shorts?”
“I don’t know your name,” Mike said with a shrug. “The other guy was Blue Trunks.”
Again he was subjected to the scrutinizing gaze. “You aren’t a fan?”
“This was my first boxing match. Ever.”
Red Shorts chuckled and got to his feet, offering a shaking hand to Mike. “Harvey Specter.” His smile made Mike’s stomach drop.
“Mike Ross.” He took Harvey’s trembling hand in his and shook it, steadying the tremors and holding tight. He could feel harvey’s pulse still racing, the adrenaline still hitting him full force. He was surprisingly calm for it. The last time Mike had been jacked up on the need to survive, he had puked coming off of it. But Harvey was the picture of controlled power, moving around Mike to his locker, pulling out his clothes and slipping of his shoes. Mike stood quietly to the side, not sure what to do with himself. He should leave, he was being given the chance to run. But he stayed, even as the little voice in the back of his mind told him not to. Harvey seemed to forget him for a few minutes, tossing his shoes into his bag, along with the ace bandages for his hands and his gloves. Mike tried not to notice the blood on them.
“You fight well.”
Harvey looked over at him, amused. “I’ve got a title shot in a month or two.”
“You’ll win.”
“Yes, I will.” On anyone else the overconfidence would have been a turnoff, but Harvey carried it like a medal, like he had earned the right to be arrogant and pompous and Mike didn’t doubt that for a moment. He didn’t doubt the hours of hard work Harvey had probably put into this, or how many injuries he had suffered to be able to puff out his chest and say that like it was a universally acknowledged truth.
“Do you need something kid?” Harvey asked, reaching for his t-shirt. Mike had expected him to get dressed up, in a suit or something, to put on some playboy image to go face the press with. Instead he was laying out clothes that Mike guessed were several years old, a worn yankees t-shirt and faded jeans. He tried not to focus on the roll of muscles in Harvey’s back as he stretched to pull on his shirt.
“I uh, no.” Mike looked away. “No, sorry. I should go.” He started to move for the door.
“This friend of yours,” Harvey said as he passed him. “Cut him off.”
Mike froze. “I can’t.”
“You need to.”
An irrational anger bubbled up in Mike’s chest. “You don’t know shit about it.”
Harvey turned slowly to face him. “He left your skinny ass for the hounds. I think I know enough.” he reached out and put a hand on Mike’s shoulder, the tremors making his grip weak. “He’s poison. He’s going to drag you down and spit you out and leave you for dead.”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t. You’ve got a small amount of borrowed time, kid, don’t let this guy take it from you.”
“The way someone took it from you?” Mike spat. He shouldn’t be angry, Harvey was right. Grammie told him the same thing almost every other week, he knew in his heart and in his gut that Trevor was going to fuck him over until he he was of no use to him. He knew, but that didn’t mean a stranger with an ego and a nice right hook could lecture him on it.
He leaned close and pressed his finger to Harvey’s chest. “He fucking cares, alright? You worry about some dude rearranging your face, I’ll worry about myself.”
Harvey’s fingers curled around his wrist and Mike started to regret getting so close to a man who hurt people for a living. His eyes were dark and his grip on Mike’s thin wrist was tight, his thumb pressed into his pulse.
He pulled Mike closer and snarled. “If he cared he would have come back for you, instead of leaving you alone, in here, with me.”
Mike tried to swallow the lump in his throat as Harvey’s grip tightened. They were inches apart, Harvey still high on adrenaline, his skin hot, pupils blown and Mike was stunned by how beautiful it all was. He stared at him, eyes wide, lips parted, trying to remind himself how to breathe, trying to think about Trevor, about Jenny, about the fact they might miss him. Maybe Trevor would notice he was gone, maybe he was on his way back right now and he’d come bounding through the door looking for him and-
“He doesn’t care.”
Mike found himself clinging to Harvey’s voice like a lifeline. It was low and steady, grounding Mike with the truth he didn’t want to swallow. He didn’t want to go home and listen to Trevor mocking him for getting left behind. He didn’t want to hide in his room pretending someone cared when no one did. He didn’t want to cut off the only person who looked at him like he had any worth.
But then, that’s how Harvey was looking at him. Why, Mike had no clue. Harvey held the same look in his eyes, mingled with the irritation and the focus, that Mike craved. The gaze was hot and weighed him down and made his knees quake. Mike was reminded of the way he looked in the ring, powerful and imposing and godlike as he towered over the crowd, the way he loomed over Mike, holding him in place with the hand on his wrist and his unwavering gaze.
A heartbeat passed between them.
Then Mike was moving, reaching for Harvey with his free hand, rising up on his toes, and kissing him with all the force he could muster. He was met with resistance at first, Harvey trying to step back, but the lockers were in his way so all it did was bring Mike closer, pressing into him. Then his hands closed around Mike’s face and they were turning and Mike felt the cold metal of the lockers through his thin t-shirt as Harvey all but slammed him against them. He held Mike there and pulled away, Mike whimpering at the loss. Or maybe it was out of the fear of being hit.
“What are you doing?” Harvey asked him in a slow voice. He was breathless and Mike could feel his fingers fighting the urge to tighten around his jaw and neck.
“I’m sorry.”
“Answer me.”
“I-it seemed like a good idea at the t-time.” Mike swallowed thickly. He braced himself for the first blow, sure that Harvey’s fists could probably break his cheek bone without any trouble at all.
Harvey laughed. But he didn’t let go. If anything he held tighter, pushing Mike into the lockers, kissing him before he could say anything else. His kiss was forceful and desperate, licking at Mike’s lips until he opened up for him, an undignified whimper sounding against Harvey’s assault. He slid his hands down to Mike’s thighs and lifted him, holding him against the lockers with surprising ease.
“Fuck,” Mike hissed as their hips ground together. “This wasn’t.. e-expected.”
“Adrenaline,” Harvey growled against his neck. He stopped kissing Mike’s neck and pulled back for air. “Sorry.”
“No, god no don’t be sorry, come back here,” that was all it took to reel him back in for more fevered kisses, their hips grinding against each other, Mike’s hands threading through Harvey’s short blonde hair. It was good, really good, being touched and teased and kissed until he was breathless. Harvey was strong, his muscles shifting under his tanned skin as he hoisted Mike higher, held him tighter, rolled his hips. Trevor had never touched him like this, no one had ever touched him like this, let alone dry hump him against a row of lockers. It was like a dream, or a porno, or both and Mike was ready to close his eyes and just go with it, when the sharp tattoo of stilettos met his ears.
“Harvey? You still here?” came the voice of the woman from earlier, Donna.
“Shit,” Harvey said, dropping Mike back to his feet. “Locker, go hide, now.”
“What?”
“Get in the damn locker,” Harvey demanded, shoving Mike into the same locker as before and closing the door.
“Harvey?”
“Donna, I thought you were handling the press?” Harvey asked, voice level and unmoved. If Mike hadn’t been the one sucking face with him seconds before, he’d never think it had happened.
“And I thought you were sneaking out the back,” Donna didn’t phrase it like a question. “Who’s in here with you?”
“No one. Just me.”
“Who?”
“Donna.”
“Gender?”
Harvey sighed. “Male.”
“Nice.”
“I’ll be good.”
“Damn right you will.” Mike listened to her heels click against the tile floor.
“Goodnight, Donna.”
“Goodnight, Harvey.”
The locker door opened. “Sorry.”
“Who is that?” Mike demanded, stumbling out of the locker.
“Donna, my assistant, handler, god, what have you.” Harvey looked almost sheepish.
“Who assumes you’re fucking a fan?”
“Well...”
“Is that a thing for you?”
Harvey shook his head. “No. Most fans are more interested in me beating the shit out of someone. If they show interest in going home with me, they’re probably too drunk, too young, or just completely unappealing.”
“You have such high standards.” Mike quipped and Harvey chuckled.
“Sorry about jumping you,” he said, packing the rest of his things and swapping his boxing shorts for his jeans. Mike looked away more for his own sanity than Harvey’s decency.
“I said it was fine. I mean I did start it so-”
“You did start it. Probably shouldn’t do that very-”
“Hey you never said no. In fact you seemed to encourage-”
“Come home with me?”
Mike stared at him. “What?”
The eye roll was impressive. “Either come home with me, or let me drop you off at your place.”
“Why?”
Harvey considered him a moment. “Because if you get run over or shot or god knows what, the first person the police are going to question after that dickhead of a person you call your friend, is me.” He shrugged. “I’m not a fan of dealing with cops. They’re pricks.”
Mike kept staring. “And how does me coming home with you factor into that?”
Picking up his bag, Harvey rolled his eyes again and motioned for Mike to follow. “I haven’t gotten laid in a while. You clearly haven’t gotten laid in a while. And frankly, as fun as it is to wine and dine someone and seduce them into my bed, I am buzzing with enough adrenaline to jump start a dead man’s heart, do not have the patience for courtship, and happen to have a pretty little pup with a nice ass who’s dying to be fucked through a mattress.” He stopped at the door. “So you can either say yes, and we go back to my place for the night and I-”
“Rock my world?”
“You make it sound so tacky.”
Mike gave a sputtered laugh and shook his head. “This is fucking nuts.”
“So was hiding in the locker room, at a fight you snuck into.” Harvey held open the back door and waited.
Mike chewed his bottom lip as he thought. He could go with this Harvey guy, who at least seemed to have a half decent sense of humor, and get laid for the first time in months. Or he could go home and face the one person who would never want him.
“You are allowed to say no,” Harvey added. “But yes is probably the most logical decision.”
“Is that your dick or your brain talking, Spock?” Mike asked as he crossed the room to where Harvey stood.
“Hey, first of all, if I’m anyone, it’s Kirk. And second, you can’t talk. You’ve got more of a hard on for this than me.” And he was right, Mike’s tight jeans were making it fairly obvious which choice he’d rather make. He followed Harvey to his car, a sleek, black, 1964 Shelby Mustang, at which even Mike, who knew jack shit about cars, had to give an approving groan. It was beautiful and Harvey beamed like he’d built it himself.
Once they were settled in the care, Harvey glanced over. “What’s the call?”
Mike leaned across the gearshift and kissed him. When he pulled back, Harvey was smirking in poorly concealed victory.
“Good choice.”