Nobody knows about them. And, for a few harrowing minutes that morning, Mike thought nobody might ever know.
Not telling anyone in the office that he's sleeping with a Senior Partner is only rational, because telling everyone would have been suicidal. They'd agreed on that, and Mike has no problems with it. If the price of having Harvey Specter in his bed is having him there on the down-low, well, Mike will happily pay that.
(Not that it's his bed they're usually in, but Mike has no particular attachment to his bed and he's growing very attached to Harvey's.)
But when Harvey stopped in the middle of court that morning, asked in a strangled voice if they could recess, and then collapsed, Mike had a horrible moment of terror that his lover was dying and nobody would even ever know.
Harvey would have kicked his ass for even thinking the word lover, but since they haven't put any other label on it and it's Mike's head, Mike gets to call it whatever he wants.
Now, sitting in the private hospital room, eight hours later, Mike is having trouble with words at all, he's so exhausted.
There's been a steady stream of people in and out: Donna, Jessica Pearson, a woman from the opposing counsel who with unusual decency for a lawyer had tidied up their abandoned prepwork and brought it to him with well-wishes for Harvey. Harvey himself was conscious for a few minutes, long enough for the doctor to tell him he'd had an infarction -- not a heart attack, he was careful to say, but a cardiac incident arising from an embolism, the kind of random time-bomb that could happen to anyone. Mike had hung back, out of sight, mindful of the doctor's warning that Harvey probably wouldn't be conscious for long, and should rest.
Nobody has noticed Mike simply remaining, unless Louis has noticed his absence from the office. If so, he hasn't called or texted, so Mike's not going to question his luck.
Harvey's skin is pale, not quite greyish anymore but washed out and unhealthy in the harsh overhead lighting. Except for a slight rise and fall in his chest, he's very still. And they are both lucky he's not dead.
If Mike spends one more minute in the uncomfortable, vinyl-padded hospital chair, he's going to scream.
Harvey's hair is sticking up in the back, and the front is disorderly, the result of medical attention and the few times he moved it while the doctor was there. Mike unbends from the chair and smooths it down, because Harvey likes to be orderly, to look neat and put-together, no matter where he is. He perches on the edge of the bed and lifts his head just a fraction, carefully, brushing it down in the back as well.
It's dark outside, and soon they'll be darkening the hospital hallways in the ICU. Soon the nurses will have to kick him out. Mike bends and rests his forehead against Harvey's, surprised and relieved to find it warm.
"Mike?" Harvey's voice is quiet and raspy, and at first Mike wonders if he's imagining it. He leans back and Harvey's eyes open glassily, somehow even more frightening than anything else that's happened that day.
"Hi," Mike says.
"Time 'sit?" Harvey asks. "Miss the alarm?"
He thinks they're in bed at his place. Mike wants to cry.
"Middle of the night," he says instead. "Go back to sleep."
"Bed's funny," Harvey frowns. His pupils aren't fully focused.
"You're in the hospital."
Harvey's eyes close and he groans.
"It's okay, you're fine," Mike promises, hoping it's true.
"I hate..." Harvey mumbles, and a word that might be doctors, but he's already slipping away again. Mike strokes his hair, not that it really needs to be put in order now, but it's soothing. At least one right thing in a very disorganized universe at the moment.
He smooths away the worry line in Harvey's forehead with his thumb, then brushes imaginary dust off his cheek. His eyelashes are narrow dark slivers against his skin.
Harvey is physical, but not demonstrative; Mike can see, sometimes, that he wants to show things more, wants to touch in ways that are intimate rather than sexual, but habit or perhaps lack of trust prevents it. Mike, who dives into relationships with recklessness each time, each time somehow expecting not to get hurt, doesn't get it. He'd still rather have the pain of a bad breakup than never get to feel the thrill of early romance. But then perhaps someone hurt Harvey worse than just a bad breakup, sometime in his past.
Harvey shifts a little, an exhale that clearly drops him deep into sleep, and a lock of hair falls out of place. Mike fixes it, then leans in and kisses him. Forehead first and then lower, a soft brush of lips against the delicate skin of his closed eyelids, perhaps a superstitious good-luck charm for easy sleep.
There's a soft noise from the doorway. Mike turns sharply to see a nurse standing there, watching them. They look at each other for what feels like a long time, while Mike waits for her to tell him he has to go.
"That's a nasty bruise," she says finally, nodding at his arm. There's a dark purple line across it, edged in green, where he bumped it against the table as he rushed forward to catch Harvey, to stagger down with him before he hit his head on the marble floor of the courtroom.
"It's fine," Mike says shyly. He hadn't intended for anyone to see his little gesture. God knows Harvey would be mortified if he were conscious.
"Bruises can be tricky," she shakes her head. "We should keep you here for observation."
And what penetrates his brain is that she's giving him an out: giving him a reason to stay. He wonders how many men and women she's done this for over the years, but mostly he's just grateful.
"There's a cot in the next room," she adds. "It's all fixed up. You can wheel it in here if you'd be more comfortable."
It has been such a long day, and bed sounds so good, and he's done all he can for Harvey now. So when he lies down on the cot, with Harvey's bed and face and the heart monitor display all clearly visible, it's not hard to sleep.
Harvey can be mad at him for his romanticism in the morning. There's going to be a morning for Harvey, which is all that matters to Mike.