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A Million Little Pieces

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It is still quite early when Mike leaves Harvey's place that Friday morning, and he shivers in the cool morning air. The building's glass doors fall shut behind him and he turns up the collar of his jacket against the chill. He should have brought a coat.

His mind is spinning. The last couple of days are stored up in there, running amok inside his head. All he can hear is Monday, Monday, Monday, Monday and You could-- and No. No. No. No.

He shakes his head and slings the bag over his shoulder. He wants to be as far away from here and from those memories as possible, as soon as possible. Wants to be anywhere but here. Wants to be--

No. No. No. Monday, Monday, Monday. Monday then. Monday. Harvey's and his own words weave into each other, claw at each other, fading and rising, again and again.

Mike makes for his bike and undoes the lock with trembling fingers. He needs to move, he needs to shut up his fucking brain, he needs to get away from here now.

He knows he really shouldn't be cycling; it's a safety-issue, but he needs the cool air against his face and the white noise of the wind in his ears and he needs to get away from here right now.

He can still feel Harvey's dick in his ass. Harvey's breath is still on his neck and Harvey's lips are moving down his throat, maddeningly hot. Harvey's voice stings his ears and his fucking scent is everywhere.

Mike needs to get away right now or he'll burst into a million pieces.

He puts on his helmet and mounts his bike. He doesn't know where to go, so he starts to pedal aimlessly. He rides through the park for two hours, the bag heavy on his back.

*****

Mike bikes home after that, sweaty and sore. His shoulders and back hurt from the weight of his bag. He can still feel Harvey inside of him, and his mind is still racing but even though his pulse is high and his heart is beating too fast in his chest, he feels a little calmer. Well, maybe "calm" is not the right word – he feels more tired, more worn out, exhausted.

He carries his bike up the stairs, into his apartment, and lets his bag drop to the ground once he’s inside. He slumps down onto the couch and leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees and closing his eyes. He lets his head hang between his shoulders and tries to catch his breath.

He doesn't want to, but he knows that what comes next is inevitable. He has tried to push his memories and thoughts, all those images and sounds and smells and impressions, to the back of his mind and hold them in place there, out of his conscious reach, with every turn of the pedals, with every movement of his muscles. He knows, though, that he can't keep them locked up in there for much longer; his mind just doesn't work that way, and he thinks he might as well get this over with now.

He takes a deep breath, presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, and lowers the barricades. The first thing he hears is Harvey's voice.

Monday then.

He hears their moaning and panting, the sound of Harvey's shower in the master bathroom, the sirens in the distance at night. He hears the rustle of the crisp linens and Harvey's bare feet on the bathroom floor, the dearest little sound. He listens to the silence that wraps itself around them when Harvey enters him and holds his breath. He hears Harvey take his first breath once he is fully sheathed, the exact moment Mike's eyes snap open. He had forgotten about that breath following the silence, and a shiver runs down his spine now that he remembers.

Not that sound, not that. Mike runs his fingers through his hair and leans back. Not that sound, not now.

He's not yet able to choose and select what he remembers, so he lets whatever comes to the surface first wash over him. The smell of Harvey's hair after they've been to the pool. The slump of Harvey's shoulders the morning he finds Mike in the guest room packing his bag. The sensation of crunchy toast in his mouth, and the taste of bitter orange marmalade. The faintest hint of moisture in the outer corner of Harvey's eyes when he's lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. Harvey's fingertips ghosting over the skin of Mike's face when he thinks that Mike is asleep. The burning need, the all-consuming want, the hitch in his own voice, begging to be filled.

Mike can feel himself blush at the sensation of his dick twitching in his trousers, and he hates all of that so much right now. He doesn't want to want this, he's never wanted to want this, but then he slipped somehow, just once, and now all he wants to do is to throw himself at Harvey's feet and beg him to make him whole again.

Harvey hates weakness.

Harvey will want this again one day, and then he will ask Mike for this again, and Mike knows that he won't be able to reject Harvey in the end. He knows he won't want to.

Harvey hates weakness.

Mike cringes as his hole clenches, and for a moment panic flares up in his chest. He checks his pulse and takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to relax. He shifts on the sofa and presses his legs together. When he's sure that it's not another, a late wave of his heat building inside of him, the tension in his muscles slowly ebbs away. He sinks back again against the sofa. He wraps his arms around himself and remembers Harvey's strong, yet gentle embrace, grounding him, letting their bodies touch lightly, and Harvey's hands running up and down his back in soothing strokes.

Harvey hates weakness.

Mike tries to structure his memories into more coherent "episodes" now – that's how he thinks of those bundles of single bits and pieces that form a more complex memory or image – because he needs to do that before he can store them away again, at least for the time being. Single memory shards can slip past the barriers too easily, and binding them to others, bundling them up into "episodes" makes it easier to keep them locked away.

His last wave hits him in the wee hours of the morning. He wakes up flushed and hard, but also with the distinct notion that everything is somehow all right. It takes him a couple of moments to realize why.

Harvey is already inside of him, rocking against his backside in a gentle and maddeningly slow rhythm. His arms are wrapped around Mike, one hand is curled around Mike's dick, and his breath is shivering against the back of Mike's neck. Harvey's swollen cock is throbbing against Mike's inner walls, and both his and Mike's thighs are moist with Mike's slick.

Mike moans and pushes back against Harvey, biting his lips and gripping Harvey's arm, the one that is wrapped around his chest.

"You were--" Harvey murmurs and thrusts into Mike a little harder, the vibrations of his voice tickling against Mike's sweaty skin. "You were saying my name." He noses at the nape of Mike's neck and tightens his hold on Mike's body.

Mike can feel Harvey swell inside of him even more.

"You were saying ‘please.’" Harvey stills and lets go of Mike's cock, causing Mike to groan with the loss of sensation. "You were so wet already, I--" Harvey brings his hand to his face and inhales Mike's scent before running his tongue down the inside of his fingers. His hips buck against Mike, and he moans as his dick pushes even deeper into the other man's body. "I had to--" Harvey wraps his hand around Mike's cock again and moves it up and down a couple of times, making Mike tremble with need. "I just had to--"

Mike squeezes his eyes shut and fucks into Harvey's fist. "Please," he whispers. "Shit, Harvey, please…" He tightens his muscles around Harvey's erection and digs his fingers into Harvey's arm. "Come on, Harvey, fuck, come on now…"

Harvey moans low in his throat, and Mike can feel an open-mouthed smile against his skin. When Harvey speaks again, Mike shudders and presses back against the other man's chest, inhaling the vibrations of Harvey's voice with his whole body. "You feel so good, Mike. So good. Want to do this every day, want to stay inside of you always, love being inside you, god, you have no idea, no idea--"

Mike can feel Harvey's knot swelling and--

He remembers thinking--

Yeah, you would want me in heat all the time, wouldn't you, want me to need you all the time, don't you, just lying here wet and waiting, always just that, want me to never work again, don't you--

-- and he remembers hearing Harvey's voice in the men's room at the firm ages ago, bragging about his plans for the night and elaborating on how only an Omega in heat counts as a "true" Omega, an Omega begging to be fucked, and he remembers swallowing around the bitter taste of this thoughts and clenching his jaw against his growing desperation and disgust. He remembers urging Harvey on with his words and movements, rutting against him, and Harvey's voice in his ears the whole goddamn time--

And then Harvey's grip on him goes impossibly tight, and he can't breathe, he can't move, and Harvey is swelling inside of him, and he can feel how tight he is around Harvey's dick, and just a bit more and he's coming, and Harvey's hand doesn't let go of his cock, and Harvey's seed fills him, and Harvey's voice fills him and Harvey's words fill him, and white light pierces his mind, and he forgets everything else, because this is what he wants, no matter what, and he's there.

He's shaking his head, and Harvey is whispering against his skin and spurting inside of him, and he feels so at home and weightless and grounded at the same time and thinking about that makes him sick. And Harvey is whispering against his skin and his words leave tiny burn marks where neck and shoulder meet. "Mine", they read, and "so good" and "Mike" and "yes" and "inside" and "more" and "always" and "mine" and "mine" and "Mike".

Mike remembers stroking Harvey's arm with just the tips of his fingers and feeling Harvey's heartbeat slow down gradually against his back. He remembers keeping very still and trying to breathe as quietly as possible while Harvey's grip around his dick slowly loosens. He remembers forcing himself not to move as Harvey's hand goes slack and his breathing finally evens out. He remembers counting the minutes until Harvey's knot goes down, and he remembers slipping from Harvey's arms carefully as soon as he can.

He remembers thinking that Harvey looks so young in his sleep and so very, very exhausted, and how much he would miss those delicate crow's feet and the small, so very small, corners of Harvey's mouth should he never get to see them again. He remembers fighting the urge, the need to just worm his way back into Harvey's embrace, and he remembers feeling a violent shiver run through his body once he shook off the covers. He remembers missing Harvey's warmth so much it hurt.

He remembers taking a quick shower and spending some fitful hours drifting back and forth between sleep and wakefulness in his bed in the guest room, and he remembers finishing packing his bag in a hurry at the first light of dawn. He remembers their tight and tense goodbyes, and after that he remembers nothing. Emptiness. Riding his bike. The weight of his bag heavy on his back.

Mike sighs and rises from the sofa. He walks over to the sink and pours himself a glass of water. He knows he should eat something, but he doesn't think he could keep anything down if he did. His knees feel weak and wobbly and his pulse is fast and shallow. Still, it’s not his heat, he decides, and sits down at the small table at the window.

His hand comes to rest over the patch of skin that holds the claim mark. Harvey's mark. The original mark is invisible now, of course, but Mike can feel it. He can feel it every fraction of every second of every minute of every day. He never forgets it, he always knows it's there. He remembers all the time he has carried the weight of this knowledge alone.

He remembers Harvey biting him there again, just the other day. He remembers the throaty groan of "Mine" Harvey has etched into his skin, and he remembers the cursed sensation of relief washing over him the very moment Harvey's teeth broke his skin. He remembers how Harvey finally came to know about it all.

"No," Harvey repeats over and over when he finally grasps what Mike is trying to tell him. "No." Harvey's face is hard with denial and what Mike thinks is repulsion. His eyes, though hard as stones as well, are blazing with something that Mike can't put a name to. "You lied to me."

Mike apologizes again and again. He bares his neck to Harvey, shaking fingers pulling the shirt's collar aside, exposing the truth. He needs Harvey to see, needs him to understand or at least to know. He needs him to believe. And, above all, he needs Harvey to forgive him.

Harvey doesn't want to know, though. He doesn't understand and he doesn't want to see. And when he finally does see, because he has to, because Mike is forcing it on him – he most certainly isn't prepared to forgive. He pushes Mike against his desk, bruises his lips with harsh, unrelenting kisses and finally, finally turns him around and shoves first his fingers and then his cock into Mike's tight hole. And Mike wants it. He wants it so much. His whole body yearns for it and he hates himself for that. He hates Harvey, too, because Harvey makes him want it and because Harvey sees him like this and Harvey hates weakness.

The clothes scratch his skin and he wants them out of the way, but there is no time, he's coming already and so is Harvey and he can't breathe and all he wants is for Harvey to hold him, to tell him that everything is going to be all right. And he hates himself for that because that won't happen and Harvey hates weakness.

Harvey makes it very clear, afterwards, that he wants no part of this, no part of Mike. And when Mike looks at his body in the mirror the following morning after his shower, he understands why. Harvey hates weakness and Mike can feel the mark on his skin and in his soul all the time even though it has long faded into invisibility. It's there. It's always there. Mike is never alone.

"We're done. For good this time."

When Harvey asks him for another heat weeks later, Mike knows he will say yes the second the question is out of Harvey's mouth. He curses himself for being so needy and such an easy lay and for wanting this so much despite his best efforts. He tries to talk himself out of it, but even before Donna has a word with him he knows that he eventually will say yes. Even though it scares the shit out of him.

Mike stretches his back and rubs his eyes. It's already slightly dusky outside. He must have sat here much longer than he thought. He is so tired, and he desperately wants to go to sleep and preferably never wake up again, but there are more memories wreaking havoc in his mind, and he knows that they won't let him sleep just yet. There is one memory especially that he finally has to confront – or rather to hand himself over to: San Francisco.

He gets up and takes a bottle of beer from the fridge. He wishes he could get high, and for a moment there he is sorely tempted, but he knows that that's out of the question. He has made a promise after all.

Mike snorts.

Promises.

Sitting down again, he takes a long swallow from his beer. They both made promises, he and Harvey, and they both broke them that day. Both of them, Mike reminds himself and takes another swig. They both did. Harvey did this to him, and he let him. Begged him for it, as a matter of fact.

He squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lips.

Harvey is drugged out of his mind with pheromones by the time he finally enters Mike's body. He can't keep his hands off Mike ,and he keeps touching every inch of Mike's skin that he can reach. Mike has never seen him like this before, never, so completely out of control yet so very much himself.

Mike's legs are spread apart and Harvey is hovering over of him, his hands cupping Mike's face or running through Mike's sweat-drenched hair or up and down his chest and sides, his mouth open and wet against Mike's, and his dick fat and heavy inside of Mike's tight heat.

Mike remembers getting on his hands and knees for Harvey on the bed earlier – How did they make it to the bedroom? Weren't they in the living room just moments ago? – spreading his legs and wanting. He remembers Harvey kneeling behind him, reaching for him and turning him around.

"No, no, no," Harvey breathes. "Not like this. I want to see you, I want to see you, Mike--" Harvey's hands are everywhere, and Mike is so wet, and he needs Harvey inside of him now, he can't wait, he just wants--

"Yeah, like this," Harvey mouths against Mike's stomach, sloppy kisses, and his tongue is burning a fiery line from Mike's navel downward, downward to the base of his cock. "Like this." Harvey licks along Mike's cock once, from the base to the tip, and Mike moans at the sensation of the tip of Harvey's tongue gathering a drop of pre-come from his slit.

"Come on, Harvey," Mike moans, and he hates the neediness in his voice. "Come on, inside, please--"

He knows he's begging but he's too far gone to care. He needs and he wants and he knows Harvey will give him everything and he just can't wait. He tugs at Harvey's hair and he pushes his cock against Harvey's chest, trying to connect, trying to show the other man what he wants, what he needs.

And, of course, Harvey understands. He moves upwards and runs his hand along Mike's cleft and brings it up for both of them to taste. Their tongues meet between Harvey's fingers and Mike opens his eyes for a moment. Harvey must have done the same thing at the same time because their eyes meet, and Mike gasps. He doesn't know what exactly it is he sees in Harvey's eyes, but it makes his breath hitch and his hips thrust upwards. It makes Mike want to hide, but he can't turn his gaze away, can't close his eyes again even for a second.

Mike remembers something akin to a whimper escaping his lips (and that memory embarrasses him now, but he can't for the life of him remember feeling anything like that back then in that bed in San Francisco)--

-- and that sound is Harvey's name and please, and Harvey closes his eyes then and nods.

"Anything, Mike," Harvey whispers. "Anything."

And because Mike knows that that is true, he wills his muscles to relax and he exhales against Harvey's forehead. He knows that Harvey will make this all right somehow. He knows that Harvey will take this desperate need that is tearing him apart and turn it into something good.

Mike spreads his legs a little further and raises his hips. "Please," he murmurs. "Please--"

And Harvey understands, and he doesn't make Mike wait any longer. He positions himself and enters Mike with one languid thrust, resting his forehead against Mike's chest, holding his breath.

Mike holds his breath then, too, and the silence that wraps itself around them is the sweetest kind of music in his ears for once.

When Harvey releases his breath after what seems an eternity to Mike, it is shaking with something Mike can't name. It turns into a soft moan that turns into his name that turns into "yes, yes, yes", and Mike can finally breathe again as well. And his moan turns into Harvey's name, of course, and their words melt into each other just like their bodies do.

They are one.

Mike wants to move and he wants Harvey to move, but they remain like this, frozen in time and space, until Harvey raises his head and touches his lips to Mike's, and it's just fucking perfect like this and it hurts so much and Mike doesn't know, he just doesn't know and, just for once, he doesn't mind not knowing.

"Mike," Harvey murmurs against his lips. "Mike, Mike, Mike, Mike…" And Mike doesn't know if Harvey says "Mike" or "mine"; it all sounds the same to him, and that makes so much sense, he thinks, so much sense, all of a sudden.

And Mike says, "yes, Harvey, yes" and "I want you" and "everything" and "please" and "Harvey" and "now" and "please" and, always and again, "please", just "please", just "please, now, Harvey, now, please--"

And Harvey says "yes, Mike, yes, perfect, so perfect" and "mine" and "Mike", but he also says "yours" and "always" and everything else.

And when Harvey swells inside of him, all Mike can think, all he can feel is "yes, yes, yes" and "Harvey" and "yours" and "mine" and "This. Is. It."

And when Mike feels Harvey's knot filling him, when he feels Harvey's release filling him, he lets go, and he really, really does, and all he knows is Harvey and yes and oh God, perfect, and mine and yours, and he doesn't know where he ends and Harvey begins because that just doesn't matter anymore, it's not what they are anymore, it's irrelevant just like their words are, just like what they are is, staring into each others' eyes, drowning in each other, they are one, and he is Harvey's like he's always been, and Harvey is his, and that's all that matters all of a sudden.

And then he's coming between their bodies, and that's just a tiny fraction of what they are, and when Harvey's mouth is right there, where his throat meets his shoulder, there are no questions left.

And when Harvey asks, pleads, needs, “Mike, please, let me, I want to, yours, please, let me, just let me,” Mike's answer is clear as the brisk morning air, it's clear as Harvey's starched white shirts and Harvey's eyes and the sharp pain of Harvey's fingernails (as clear as his own fingernails digging into Harvey's skin), it fights its way from his heart through his lips and it's yes, of course, yes, Harvey, please, yes, yes, yes.

And Harvey asks again, and Mike is getting a little impatient here, because why is there still a question, and why is it “are you sure?” it's so obvious, isn't it, and he just answers, all of him just answers, yes, yes, I am, of course I am, always, always, please do it, please, Harvey, please--

And Harvey understands and he-- Finally. Does. It.

Harvey licks Mike's skin briefly and then there are his teeth and then there is the breaking of skin and then there is--

Mike groans loudly, balls his hand into a tight fist and slams it onto the table. The impact actually hurts, and the rickety table shakes so much that the empty bottle falls over and rolls towards the end of the table's surface. All Mike can do is watch how it tumbles over the edge and shatters on the kitchen floor.

The pieces go everywhere, and Mike wonders how such a little bottle can end up in so many shards and splinters. He will have to be careful later when he takes off his shoes. He hopes he doesn't forget.

When Mike comes to again sometime later, Harvey has passed out and is softly breathing – because Harvey Specter doesn't snore, does he? – resting on Mike's chest.

Mike can feel Harvey's knot slowly go down inside of him and, coming to his senses, he isn't quite sure how he feels about that. Panic sets in as soon as the level of pheromones in his system ebbs a little, and thoughts and emotions wage a raging battle inside of him. "I'm yours," he thinks, and "What have we done?" and "What does it mean?" and "I'm yours. I'm yours," and "What does it mean?"

He gently pushes Harvey off of his body and he can feel the stickiness between his legs again, and he isn't all that sure he likes that, all of a sudden.

Harvey miraculously doesn't wake up when Mike disentangles himself from his embrace.

Harvey doesn't wake up when Mike covers him with the sheets.

Harvey doesn't wake up during all the minutes Mike watches him breathe.

Harvey doesn't wake up when Mike runs his fingers over the bite mark above his clavicle, even though Mike is sure Harvey must feel that, too.

When Mike traces his thumb over Harvey's slightly open lips, Harvey stirs but he doesn't open his eyes.

"What happened?" Harvey mumbles. He doesn't see Mike close his eyes and bite his lips.

"Nothing," Mike whispers after a while. "Nothing. Go back to sleep."

Mike remembers leaving the suite for the first time in days that evening. He remembers quickly donning a dressing gown and searching for his key card in the darkening living room. He remembers closing the suite's door behind him and walking across the corridor, his feet bare.

His own room smells stale. Everything is still there, his clothes in the closet, files on the coffee table, his toothbrush and shaving kit in the bathroom. He takes a shower and his supps, and he takes another shower in the morning after sitting on the edge of his hotel bed all through the night. He showers, lets the hot water rain over his body for twenty minutes, and he uses the deodorant and the spray and he dresses in fresh clothes that smell like the closet and not like him.

He walks over to the suite, where Harvey is waiting, dressed, and everything is packed. He is so fucking scared and he searches Harvey's eyes for something, anything, but he can't find what he's looking for, even though he doesn't know what that is, exactly.

Mike remembers debating with himself, like he had been all night, if he should tell Harvey about the mark. But once again, he decides against it. He remembers thinking that maybe it will fade away with time, and that that might be a good thing, the better thing. He remembers wishing though that it wouldn’t. He remembers the need to say something, so he says the first thing that comes to his mind: "Thank you."

He can't meet Harvey's eyes again. He can't bear the thought of not finding anything there, and he doesn't understand how Harvey cannot know. He feels it in every fiber of his being, and the mark pulses painfully beneath his shirt and jacket. It pulses with the rhythm of a heartbeat that isn't his own.

Mike moans and buries his face in his hands. He still doesn't understand how Harvey could have not known, how he could have simply forgotten. And his mind goes back to Harvey's mask-like face and all those "No"s, but also to Harvey's eyes when he finally told him.

It goes back to the last four days, to the t-shirts and energy drinks, to the pool and Harvey's hands on his skin. Harvey's voice and words, bathing him in praise. And Harvey's eyes. Over and over again. Claiming him. Wanting him.

He's so tired. But when he goes to bed, carefully stepping around all the shards and splinters of broken glass, sleep doesn't come.

He longs for Harvey's embrace, and somehow he thinks that Harvey would want to hold him, too, right this moment. Just hold him, not-- And that, if they really did this, not just a heat every now and then, but really did this, that Harvey maybe even would let him keep working if he wanted to. That Harvey maybe doesn't really see him the way he sees those other Omegas he was talking about in the men's room at the firm that day, and that Harvey would want him even if he wasn't in heat and that Harvey would let him go back on his supps from time to time. That Harvey would take care of him. That he wouldn't want to take Mike’s life away. That Harvey likes Mike's mind so much and that he wouldn't want it to go to waste. That maybe, maybe Harvey would want--

He rolls onto his side under the covers and curls in on himself. He remembers that thick, heavy woolen blanket in Harvey's condo, and he wishes he could feel its weight on his body right now. He remembers Harvey wrapping him up in that blanket when he couldn't let Harvey hold him just yet.

He remembers Harvey claiming him again and whispering to him in the dark. He can still hear Harvey's voice, and words that hurt and words that soothe and ease the pain drift into one another in his mind.

He remembers Harvey's eyes. He remembers not being able to hold Harvey's gaze, because it's too--, just too heavy, the weight of Harvey's eyes on his is just too much, and it takes him some time to put a name to what he's feeling when he thinks of what he might have read in those eyes had he dared to look. Remorse.

He swallows around the feeling of loss and loneliness, and he squeezes his eyes shut tightly until they burn. He knows that they're not finished. He knows that he will have to go back to Harvey and look into his eyes.

He has to go and see Rachel tomorrow, of course. He has to talk to her and get his shit together. And then he has to see Harvey again. He has to look into Harvey's eyes and see.