Mike has been up all night, wading through boxes covered in years of dust, decades of dust. Until he'd felt like he was breathing in several lifetimes worth of the stuff. His brain feels over-stuffed and tender, and there's a sore spot behind his left eye, which he can't help but imagine will turn into a seizure, if he doesn't sleep soon.
Harvey had said it was impossible, and Mike has been living on coffee and the burning desire to prove him wrong ever since. Which he has accomplished, because he's a genius. Though he gets confused looking for Harvey's door. So much of the world looks the same when you've been awake for nearly sixty hours. Also, it's still dark, it's too dark for things. For important work-related, file-related things.
There's a worrying moment where he doesn’t have a clue what on earth he's been doing all night. But he tells himself it's the sleep deprivation. It will come back to him.
Harvey's asleep, mostly asleep, stretched out in his sheets, one arm curled under the pillow. Anyone else would actually look like they'd been sleeping, all messy hair, untidy limbs and half-open mouth.
Harvey looks incredible like this too. It's not fair.
"God, you look amazing," Mike complains bitterly. "I hate you, do you know that?"
Harvey makes an indistinct noise, from somewhere in the pillow. It sounds like agreement.
"And I don't think you appreciate the things I do for you." Mike gestures with the file he'd managed to dig up, then realises Harvey can't see it, and sits down on the edge of the bed. "I've been up all night. I found it, I found more than one 'it,' I found three. I'm amazing."
"Good morning, Mike," Harvey says. Like they've just met in the lobby, he doesn't even bother to open his eyes.
"Appreciation," Mike repeats, and his fingers draw the sheet down the long, tanned length of Harvey's back, without his permission. "Just a little, that's all I ask." The sheet reaches the curve of his ass and slows, then slips sideways, falling away completely.
Mike stops talking, because it's very hard to complain about someone not appreciating you, when you're distracted by the phenomenal curve of their ass, the phenomenal, naked curve of their ass.
"You are Satan, you realise this?" he decides.
Mike can't resist sliding a hand up the back of Harvey's thigh. He's too tired to worry about whether he should, whether he's allowed, even though they're kind of, maybe, sort of, having sex. It's warm, Harvey's whole body is warm. It pulls at Mike's sleep-deprived skin.
"This is sexual harassment," Harvey says, low and rough, but he's smiling, Mike can hear it in his voice. Something's amusing him, and Mike knows without doubt that it's him.
Mike drops the files on the floor.
"No, it's a crime of opportunity."
Harvey hums agreement, and spreads his legs, just the slightest shift apart.
"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" Mike says desperately. But it's a rhetorical question, because of course he does. Harvey always knows what he's doing. "I haven't had any sleep, sixty hours I've been awake for you. You're doing this on purpose." He slips his hand into the warm space between Harvey's thighs.
There's a possibility Mike has actually passed out from exhaustion, and is at this very moment sleeping on some grubby office carpet somewhere, inhaling fibre and bits of dirt off people's shoes.
"You look like a fucking god, I swear. How do you expect anyone to not take advantage of you?"
He leans down, and bites the curve of Harvey's ass, and there's a snort of laughter, which doesn't sound like Harvey at all. It sounds surprised, and Mike likes it.
"You're going to kill me." Mike pulls on thigh muscle, until he has Harvey spread just far enough to send a stab of guilty, dizzy lust all the way through him.
He's pretty sure he's never wanted anything so much in his life. He's so hard, there's a danger he'll have some sort of stroke.
"Up on your knees," Mike says, as firmly as he can manage.
"Is that your grown-up voice?" Harvey says, sounding for all the world like Mike doesn’t currently have a handful of his ass.
"Get on your knees, now. Or I shall take these files I spent twelve hours looking for, and I shall burn them."
Mike's going to blame that on temporary insanity. But the pillow tips sideways, Harvey's arm sliding free, hand laid flat in the sheets. Harvey's knees press into the mattress, and he very slowly pushes himself up, spine bending in a way that Mike wants to follow with his tongue. He has to bite down on his lip, which does nothing to stifle the noise he makes watching Harvey fold over, hair falling forward over his face. Mike's not entirely sure he still has control of his own nervous system, because he's already moving up the bed, shoes in the sheets, suit jacket left strewn somewhere behind him.
"Fuck, Harvey, Fuck."
The drawer beside the bed is briefly uncooperative, and then on the floor somewhere, which Mike will apologise for later. His pulse is a roar in his ears, and he's clumsy, stupidly clumsy when he snaps the cap open, immediately gets too much lube on Harvey's expensive sheets, and across the back of his thigh, before finally, finally managing to get a finger inside him.
"Jesus, you're tight." Mike's mouth is working, and he officially has no control over it any more. He can't help the way it sounds. "Do you even know what you look like? I didn't think you'd ever let me do this. I've never been this hard in my life."
Harvey's skin twitches, and he rocks back, a brief slow push onto Mike's fingers. Which kills all of his brain cells in one go. Mike watches the muscles in his shoulders flex, and he doesn't even have words for the things he wants to do. All at the same time. It's very confusing. He wants to stretch a hand up Harvey's back, and fist it in his hair most of all. He's pretty sure Harvey will actually kill him for that one.
"I can't fuck you and then go to work," Mike says desperately, breathlessly. "I can't, my brain isn't designed to handle things like that."
Harvey laughs like he's finding it all hilarious. But he's still spread out like a fucking offering, or a reward for good behaviour. Mike doesn't bother to question, still pushing his slippery fingers into him, other hand getting his pants open in a series of desperate twists. Slicking himself up is a special sort of torture. But he's careful, he's as careful as he can be, has no idea how long it's been, how often Harvey does this. He bites down on his own impatience, and presses in slowly.
Harvey makes a soft noise, which turns shaky and satisfied, when Mike can't get any deeper. Mike's holding Harvey's waist, in a way that's close to demanding, but the press of his fingers is more of a plea for stillness. Because he's pretty sure he doesn't have the self-control for this. He looks down, watches where he pushes in, the slick, wet stretch of it, and he tries a slow thrust, which is good, really, really good.
He can be careful, he has no problem with careful.
It takes him no time at all to realise that's a promise he has no chance of keeping. Because Harvey is quite clearly not on his side. His entire body demands, and Mike has gotten far too used to doing what Harvey wants without question. Whatever Harvey wants, Harvey gets.
Until Harvey has one hand braced on the wall, and Mike's leaving bruises in the curve of his waist. Trying to ignore the soft, solid noise of their skin meeting, and Harvey's quiet, almost wordless encouragement. The way Harvey's hand pulls his own forward, wraps it round his cock with a growl.
Mike pushes his other hand up through Harvey's hair, wrecking it completely, in a way he knows he's going to pay for. He lets his fingers tighten anyway. He's going to be in so much trouble for that later. But he's pretty sure it will be worth it. Because Harvey doesn't twist away, instead he gasps, like he disapproves in a really, really good way. Mike's so deep he can't breathe properly, and everything is rough and messy and uncoordinated, until the world drops out from under him, and he ends up curved over Harvey's back, murmuring complete and total nonsense into the curve of his spine, while he comes.
Mike's pretty sure he finishes by telling Harvey he's the best thing in the world, ever, before he's somehow lying on his back in Harvey's sheets.
Harvey's bed is really comfortable, and Mike vaguely registers someone taking his shoes off.
He doesn't wake up again until it's dark.