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It began, as it always did, with the dancing black dots.
Mike was standing in the kitchen, methodically stirring creamer into his morning coffee, when they flitted into his vision, ugly and dark. Like tiny black holes, they swallowed a large portion of his gaze where they spun and floated. His world tilted on its axis, and he gripped the countertop, hard, until the skin on his hand stretched tight over his knuckles. He clenched his eyes shut quickly and swallowed convulsively, waiting for them to fade into the pulse already beginning to thrum behind his eyes. In through his nose, out through his mouth, he breathed slowly.
~
He was no stranger to migraines and their accompanying auras; although, it had only been in recent years that he'd truly been able to put a name to the floaty black dots and the swimming world that preceded his days of agony. Right after his parents had passed, when he'd first begun experiencing the symptoms, every doctor his Grammy had taken him to had been quick to jump on the psychosomatic train. The pain he was experiencing was just stress. Grief was the reason it felt, most days, like his brain was trying to force its way out of his skull through his eyeballs. Losing both parents would be traumatic for anyone, let alone an eleven-year-old genius with no friends and no other family than his retired grandmother. He was just exhausted, that's why he would pass out.
Give it time.
Drink more water.
Exercise.
Take some Tylenol and sleep it off.
Eventually, they'd given up. Mike grew accustomed to the near constant thumping in his head, the dull weight that seemed to rest heavy on his mind and squeeze his skull like a vice. He told himself the little black dots were all in his head, some sort of self-induced, tangible consequence to explain why his brain was actively trying to explode. He told himself he was dehydrated, that's why he felt dizzy. He wasn't eating enough, that's why he threw up. Each symptom was rationalized until they became barely a passing thought in his exhausted mind. He made peace with the little black dots, embraced them like old friends, even though he knew the pain they would bring in the days to come.
Then again, Mike had never exactly been an ace at picking friends, either.
It was clear no one else he knew went through what he did. No one else saw little black dots, stumbled around like the ground was moving, threw up non-existent food. No one else was reduced to a sniveling mess for days on end with a headache as blinding as a nuclear bomb. No one else needed help, on those days, to eat, to drink, to take a goddamn piss.
Not that anyone wanted to help him do those things, anyhow. Sure, Grammy did what she could, but how could a woman in her seventies be expected to haul her preteen grandson to the bathroom all alone just because he couldn't get out of bed, like some invalid? As for Trevor, well, his jackass of a "best friend" thought it was endlessly hilarious, how dramatic he was. Admired him, he said, for the amount of pity he could garner out of their teachers. The poor orphan boy, so riddled with grief he'd self-induced explosive headaches. Hell, Trevor even benefitted from his agony, often receiving grace periods on his own assignments under the guise of trying to help Mike recover.
As if Mike didn't do 90% of Trevor's work as it was.
So, needless to say, he grew used to it. Or, at least, as used to such torture as a person could grow. He began to treat hiding his headaches like a game he could level up, a skill he could develop; he became so good at it that by high school, most everyone, even Grammy, was under the impression they'd stopped completely, which just wasn't the case. The pain hadn't disappeared; he'd simply taught it to become his reality.
They actually had become more bearable through high school and college, once Trevor had introduced him to the mind-numbing joys of marijuana. It wasn't like he was proud of it—he knew Grammy would be ashamed of him if she found out he was using—but for the first time since he was eleven years old, he could sleep through the night. He could finish an entire essay without stopping to wrap a bag of frozen peas around his head and bury himself face first in a pillow until he fell asleep in a pool of his own tears, sweat, and misery. No matter how many times he thought just one more hit, just enough to get through this one last final, then I'll stop, he was cascaded with an onslaught of memories, pain filled days in the darkness of his stuffy bedroom, biting his fist to muffle his sobs so Grammy didn't hear him from the living room.
He always took another hit. One last hit. Then he'd quit.
But the pain never quit. Each time he felt guilty about taking another drag, he would just remind himself that if his mind wasn't going to play fair, he at least deserved to have a weapon to combat it. And that's all the drugs were. They were a weapon, a disguise. His eyes weren't bloodshot from tears; it was just the drugs. His hands didn't shake from the all-consuming pain. Again, it was just the drugs. The double vision, the slurred speech. All of it, drugs.
Before long, he'd built himself a layer of drug-shaped armor so thick, not a soul seemed to recall that his brain tried to collapse in on itself.
The weed brought little black dots all on their own, no need to acknowledge his headaches. They swam and danced before his eyes. The ground rolled under his feet; he ate an entire bag of pretzels and spent the next three hours puking them all back up. He drowned himself in the hazy bliss until he couldn't even tell the difference between the symptoms of a headache and the side effects of a long trip.
Of course, he wasn't stupid enough to think drugs were a sustainable solution, and nor did they leave him under any impression of such. Despite his use, there were still days he spent curled in the fetal position on his own bed, days when the muscles in the back of his neck were so tight that they felt like coiled springs behind his head.
It was on one of those particularly bad days, when it had been over 48 hours since his last hit and his brain was turning to pudding between his ears, that he stumbled into that interview room in The Chilton and met the man that would change his life, in more ways than he could ever imagine.
Despite the tightness in his forehead, the ringing in his ears, and the swirly blur to his vision, he managed to do the unthinkable: gain Harvey Specter's respect. He managed to convince the Best Closer in New York City to offer him an associateship most law students would cut off their own arms for, even without a law degree. Contingent, of course, on him cutting the weed, once and for all.
That night, when Mike went to flush his and Trevor's entire load down the toilet, he mused that it did feel a bit like cutting off his own arm. A part of him felt like he'd just ended his own life with not a clue how he was going to survive the fast-paced world of corporate law when he would need sunglasses indoors to just get through half the week under the rough fluorescents.
Little did he know, with one simple decision, he hadn't ended his life, whatever semblance of it he'd been drifting through; he'd just kickstarted it.
~
"You okay?" Harvey asked softly from the doorway of their bedroom.
Mike nodded slowly, already feeling the telltale tightness pull in his neck with that one movement. The pain hadn't started yet, but he knew it wouldn't be far behind. He'd been around the bend enough times to know he had a couple of hours, max, until it would hit.
When the world finally settled down again, Mike dared to crack his eyes open and watched his husband disappear back into their room only to reappear a moment later with two pills. He rested his hand lightly on the small of Mike's back.
"Here," he said, his voice noticeably quieter than usual. Mike wasn't sure he could love the other man anymore. "Your morning dose and the extra strength one to stave off the worst of it. How bad's the aura?"
He threw back the pills and dry-swallowed. In through his nose, out through his mouth. "Black dots. And I got dizzy."
"You're supposed to sit down where you are when that happens."
Mike gave him a side-glare and immediately regretted it when pain lanced through his head like a lightning bolt. Harvey just sighed, that mix between fond exasperation and unsurprised disappointment. He carefully guided Mike to sit at the island by his biceps.
"You think you can eat something, or is it just going to come back up? Some dry toast or a banana, maybe?" His hand drifted up to the back of Mike's neck and began to mindlessly knead at the taut muscles there. Mike couldn't hide his flinch, and Harvey shushed him.
Mike shrugged weakly. "I can try the banana. But I'm okay, really. We're going to be late, and we've got that deposition with the Clancy siblings this morning."
He made to get up from his chair, but clearly, the movement was too much, too quickly. The kitchen careened to the side, and he would have faceplanted right on to the tile had Harvey not carefully wrapped an arm around his waist. "Easy," he murmured. He raised an eyebrow. "Still think you're going anywhere?"
To his horror, Mike felt tears beginning to burn in his eyes. It was just that, despite all they'd been through together, Mike hated feeling so goddamn useless. He hated when he got like this, even if Harvey's intervention had monumentally decreased his migraine days to a fraction of what they'd been prior to meeting.
~
It was Harvey who had first noticed the way his face constantly pulled tight with a pain he had stopped noticing long before. It was Harvey who had seen the way he squinted at his computer monitor and unconsciously rubbed his temples like sheer force of will alone could usher the ache away. It was Harvey who had caught him the first time he'd locked himself in the darkness of the men's bathroom and proceeded to throw up the meagre half a muffin he'd ingested for breakfast and promptly pass out on the floor like some Disney maiden.
It was Harvey who became the first person to ever see every terrible part of him laid bare and had stayed by his side anyway. Hell, he'd married him knowing there were days Mike couldn't walk himself to the bathroom.
"In sickness and health, Rookie," he'd murmured into the sweat-slick back of his neck the first time after their wedding Mike had cried into the toilet at two in the morning.
Again and again, it had been Harvey, always there, always being the first one to advocate on Mike's behalf. "You really think nineteen years of agonizing headaches is self-induced?" He'd said to the first doctor they'd seen. "Do you really think it's normal that he can barely walk sometimes, that he slurs his speech and sees double? I might have gone to law school, but even I know that's not all 'psychosomatic.'"
And he'd said it, over and over, steadfast in preventing Mike from self-destruction, in preventing him from brushing away the concern and accepting their age-old song and dance—until finally, a neurologist had given them a diagnosis: chronic migraines with brainstem aura. It explained everything, the dizziness and the dancing black dots, the nausea and the loss of consciousness, the slurred speech and balance issues.
It felt strange, after so many years, to put a name to this thing he'd come to recognize as the reality of his daily existence. All of the words felt so foreign on his tongue, so uncomfortable like new dress clothes. As Harvey and the doctor discussed auras and neurotransmitters and treatment plans, Mike was only a little ashamed to admit he drifted off into the recesses of his own mind, as had become his wont for escape over the years. It didn't matter, not really; as nice as it was to be told what he'd known all along, that he truly wasn't crazy, it wasn't like the diagnosis profoundly rocked his world. There was still no cure. Treatment, sure, and careful management, but there was no cure-all, catch-all, no magic pill they could hand him that would miraculously offer him an escape from his old friends of agony.
He became a bit apathetic to his own treatment after that. He shuffled from one place to another, took whatever Harvey told him to with little to no protests. It was easier that way. He'd humor his husband until he inevitably realized—just as Mike had at the ripe age of eleven—that they were a package deal, him and his headaches. There was nothing that could be done. Still, it was nice to entertain the notion, even for just a little while.
~
"Hey, hey, why're you crying?" Harvey soothed. "You're okay, sweetheart. We've done this a hundred times; I know it sucks, but we'll be okay."
Mike sucked in a sharp breath, hating the way it slammed into him like a gut punch. He hated facing the tile, panting like he'd just run a marathon. He hated being helpless. He hated being useless. He hated his goddamn headaches. "Why don't you just leave me alone?" He snapped, more out of desperation to preserve whatever infinitesimal shred of his dignity was left than sincerity, and Harvey knew it.
He hauled Mike back on to the chair and brushed his hair from his clammy forehead. "Because, Michael Specter-Ross, you're my husband. And part of the deal was loving you even when you don't want me to."
Mike snorted wryly. "Right. Looks like you got the short straw. Sorry about that."
"Hey, look at me." Harvey gently tilted his head up to meet his gaze, warm palms on either side of Mike's face. He tenderly brushed his tears away with the pad of his thumbs. "I knew who you were when I married you, and I still do. You're brilliant, you're funny, you're kind, you're so damn empathetic it's sickening, and most of all, you're resilient. Mike, do you even know how strong you are, to go through this for so many years? I would have died, literally died, years ago. That's who I married. I don't give a damn about your headaches because taking care of you when you need me is a privilege next to how happy you make me every single goddamn day of my life. So, stop thinking you trapped me in this or whatever else is caught up in that head of yours. Because I'm in this, Mike, until you get sick of me. Understand?"
Fresh tears welled in Mike's eyes, and he let them fall, unhindered. He buried his face in Harvey's shirt, and the older man cradled him easily without a word. He felt a kiss in his hair, and he squeezed his eyes shut again to block out the little black dots as he lost himself in the scent of Harvey's cologne and the gentle rise and fall of his husband's chest beneath his cheek. He silently begged this time to be different. For just this once, let it be the aura and nothing else.
He knew it was a fruitless wish, but that never stopped him from thinking it.
They sat like that for a long time until Harvey finally asked, "Will you be alright for a minute while I call Donna to let her know we won't be in?"
Mike swallowed hard. "But the deposition," he absolutely did not whimper.
"Can wait. Trust me, I'd rather spend my day in bed with you than in a conference room with those two."
Mike waved him away. He knew that without genuine confirmation, Harvey wouldn't leave his side. "Go. I'll be fine. But…"
"Yeah?"
"Can you get me a glass of water before you go? And maybe that banana?" The second request was more to please Harvey than anything else. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, the banana would be making a reappearance within the next few hours, but it was honestly worth the encore to see the genuine smile on Harvey's face.
"Of course." He made quick work of filling a glass from the refrigerator filter and peeling the banana before Mike could protest. He pressed another kiss to Mike's temple and disappeared into their bedroom.
~
Mike truly did credit Harvey with the reduction in frequency of his migraines. Not only had his husband been the one pushing for answers at every turn, but he'd also been the one pushing Mike to take an active role in his own health.
"You get migraines, Mike. Millions of people do. You're not dying even if it feels like it; it's all about taking care of yourself and learning to manage," Harvey had told him one evening when he'd been feeling particularly sorry for himself.
Mike wasn't exactly proud of his behavior at the time. He'd been downright nasty with Harvey. It was the reaction of a wounded, pained animal, and they both knew it. But that didn't make it any easier on either one of them.
He had accused Harvey of trying to control his life. Of being a mother hen. Of concerning himself with matters that he could never hope to understand. He'd called him more names than he could recall, and then promptly broke down crying until he was dry heaving over the sink, the pounding in his head like an active boxing match.
Harvey had just sighed and walked over, rubbing his back soothingly and whispering sweet nothings in his ear. That had only made Mike cry harder.
Even his pride couldn't keep Mike from admitting that getting on a medication regiment and proper eating schedule helped immensely. He'd never had any sort of preventative medication prior to Harvey—no one willing to provide a known addict with medication for a condition they didn't even believe he had—so the idea that he could take such a small capsule before an attack even hit to prevent it was beyond him.
And, of course, Harvey being Harvey, he could never let Mike do it alone. He swore they could both do with eating healthier. Mike could only roll his eyes and scoff at that.
"Yeah, okay, Mr. Wakes Up at the Ass Crack of Dawn to Run When No One's Chasing Him. But, sure, we could both use a diet."
"You could run with me, you know. I was reading an article, and they said that exercise can help with migraines. Something about regulating pain pathways in your brain."
Mike had rolled back over in bed and pulled the comforter over his head. "If recreating Rocky is the only way to stop migraines, I think I'll just let my brain explode."
"Suit yourself, Sylvester," he said and left their room, but not before turning the lights back off. It made Mike's heart warm each time Harvey would do something so unconsciously sweet, without really even thinking, just because it would make Mike's life even minimally easier, for just a moment.
But with Donna's help, they did eventually manage to find something that worked for them. She downloaded an app on each of their phones, that synced together, to track water intake. They turned it into a competition, to see who could drink more water in a day and less coffee (Harvey) or Red Bull (Mike).
Together, they stopped eating out as much, too. They made it a point to cook dinner at home at least three nights a week, and when they did eat out, they began to avoid their normal haunts, like the Thai place around the corner or the pizzeria down the block.
The meds helped, and so did the new diet. But it didn't stop there. Mike began to see a chiropractor regularly, as well, to fix all the shit he'd messed up from so many hours spent hunched over a desk. He began wearing specially tinted glasses whenever he worked on his computer, and Harvey put into place a strict 'No Electronics After 9 p.m. Unless It's an Emergency' rule. For both of them, that was. They quickly found that not only did it help with Mike's migraines, but it also allowed them time to just be. To talk and decompress and focus on their relationship without the hubbub of corporate drama for more than ten minutes.
Things began to change, slowly but surely. It wasn't overnight, for sure, but after only a few weeks Mike could tell a difference. The near-constant pain he'd held since he was eleven years old finally dimmed until it was just a pinprick, not even an annoyance most days.
He'd cried his eyes out the first morning he'd woken up, already squinting against the sunlight peaking between the blinds, expecting the all-too-familiar lance of pain to spike through his skull, only to be met with…nothing. Blissful nothing. He'd blindly slapped Harvey awake without rolling over.
"Huh?" His Ivy-educated husband mumbled so eloquently.
"It doesn't hurt," was all Mike could whisper. He was in shock, awestruck. He'd nearly forgotten what it was like not to be in pain. It was glorious, absolutely indescribable.
Harvey grumbled into his pillow. "What?"
"My head. It doesn't hurt," he said. He didn't even try to hide from the way his voice cracked. His tongue was already salty with his own tears. Tears of joy.
Harvey pushed himself onto his elbows, and if Mike hadn't been so afraid to break whatever fairy tale bubble of solitude and merriment he'd found himself in, he would have turned his head to stare at him. Morning Harvey was in his top three favorite versions of Harvey.
"Are you serious?"
Mike, testing the waters, slowly nodded against his tear-soaked pillow. "Nothing."
"That's amazing!"
It really was. And for days after that, he was miraculously pain free, not even a twinge. It was, by far, the best three days of his life, only rivaled by his wedding day and the subsequent honeymoon. But even for those, there had always been that lingering ache, the dull pain he could never quite seem to shake. It had been easy to ignore, mixed up in all the excitement, but it had been there all the same, slowly draining his energy until he was a mess of snot and tears by the third day of their honeymoon.
"I can see Paris any old time," Harvey murmured into his hair while one hand pressed a cool washcloth over Mike's eyes. The balcony doors of the little villa Harvey had rented were firmly shut, blocking out the warm summer breeze and the bustle of people below. Just something else Mike had to go and ruin. "Really. Once we get you feeling better, we'll come back. Any time you want. Right now, I'd rather be here with you."
It was a sentiment Harvey tended to reiterate whenever one of Mike's headaches would keep him bedbound. No matter what he said to try and convince Harvey otherwise, his husband was always steadfast.
"You're not a burden, sweetheart. I love you. I really would rather be with you, no matter what we're doing."
Which, of course, only made Mike feel more like a burden. Most days, he really did feel like the metaphorical ball and chain so many people referenced when getting married. He felt like he'd trapped Harvey into something he'd never signed up for, like he was dragging him down every single day.
"We should get a divorce," Mike said one morning out of the blue while Harvey was adjusting his tie in the mirror. He watched him carefully from the sanctuary of their bed, gauging for a reaction. It broke his heart to utter those words, but it needed to be done, and Harvey would never be the one to surrender. Mike couldn't keep holding him back.
Mike had never seen Harvey's eyes go so wide. If not for the heaviness of the air pressing in on him, Mike would have laughed. As it was, his head hurt entirely too much to even consider it.
"What?" Harvey said, low, deadly quiet. He didn't even turn around.
"You heard me. We should get a divorce."
"And why, pray tell, would we do an idiotic thing like that? Are you unhappy?"
Mike swallowed hard. A red-hot poker was shoving its way into his temple. "No, of course not—"
"Then what the hell, Mike?"
"I just–" He took a deep breath. In through his nose, out through his mouth. "I just can't do this anymore."
"Do what exactly?"
"I can't be the reason you ruin your life, Harvey. I watched it happen with Grammy. Her and my grandfather loved each other so much, but when he got sick, she quit her job to take care of him. She stopped leaving the house, stopped doing all the things she loved, just so she could be there for him. And then after he died, she never went back to the way she used to be. I can't—"
Mike was sharply cut off by Harvey's lips on his own. "Don't," he whispered, so close their lips still touched, and Mike could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across his skin. "Don't."
~
By the time Harvey returned from his phone call, Mike had already lost the half of the banana he'd choked down.
"Hey, hey, I got you," Harvey said. One arm slid around his waist, the other went to Mike's forehead, keeping his head from tipping into the sink and brushing his hair back in one move.
Mike gagged again, but there was nothing left to come up. He cracked his eyelids open. The cold steel of the sink below was blurry. His eyes burned like someone had been cutting onions. A pair of dark sunglasses slipped on to his face from behind.
Harvey pressed his face into the back of Mike's head. His hand unconsciously rubbed soothing circles over Mike's stomach. "Let it out, sweetheart. It's okay; I'm here."
Mike would have been embarrassed about the pained sob that bubbled its way up his throat if they hadn't been through this so many times before. There wasn't a shred of self-respect left in him to be ashamed.
"Think you can make it to the bedroom? I'll carry you."
Mike swallowed the bile burning the back of his throat. "I-I can make it. Hasn't fully set in yet."
"If you're sure. I'm right here."
"Just–just don't let go."
"Never."
It was slow going, with Mike's legs shaking like a newborn foal's. True to his word, Harvey stayed by him the entire time. He kept one arm carefully wrapped around Mike's waist and took every ounce of Mike's weight he rested against him. He went down with him the one time Mike's head lolled, and his knees collapsed; he'd cradled him carefully in his lap until Mike had come back to himself. By the time they made it up the single step to their room, and Harvey deposited him carefully on the bed, Mike was exhausted.
Harvey knelt in front of him. He brushed a hand through his sweaty hair. "Can I take your clothes off?"
And Mike, despite the pain beginning to clamp down on his brain, couldn't pass up such an open opportunity. He mustered up what he was sure was a poor pantomime of his usual sarcastic smirk and said, "Jeez, H, taking advantage of a sick person. Have you really stooped so low?" His words were slow, and his tongue was heavy like a cement in his mouth.
Harvey huffed, unamused. "Fine, then. Undress yourself, see if I care. I'm not cleaning your blood off the floorboards when you crack your head open."
"Small mercies."
Through the dark tint of his sunglasses, Mike could see Harvey's face soften. "That bad, huh?"
"It's getting there."
"Well, let's get you comfortable before it does. Donna sends her love, by the way, and says to take care of yourself. Your brain is PSL's best asset. Her words, not mine, but I can't say I disagree."
He began to carefully pull off his clothes, beginning with his shoes and socks, and replacing his suit with soft sweats and a t-shirt, both of which he was positive belonged to Harvey. Mike wasn't a Dodgers fan, and the ties on the sweatpants had to be double knotted to stay up.
Harvey pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Be right back," he murmured.
Mike may or may not have passed out again because the next thing he knew, the sunglasses were being pulled off his face and replaced with a damp washcloth. He could feel the cool air of the ceiling fan blowing over his exposed skin. He shivered and burrowed further under the down-filled comforter that had been flung over him at some point, but he didn't dare say anything. He knew he'd mourn the loss of the chilly air later.
A warm hand settled on his back, and he felt the mattress next to him dip. "There's some water and a bottle of Gatorade on the table. I want both of them gone in the next hour. And I put the trashcan next to the bed, just in case."
Mike hummed in acknowledgement as he felt another hand on the back of his neck, kneading at the tight muscles again. It was difficult in the quiet, dark, cool room not to melt into his husband's ministrations, even with the growing pain. Still, his mind was buzzing blissfully, floating somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness.
The pain sucked, but it was nothing he wasn't used to. "Thank you," he whispered.
"Of course. If you need anything, you just tell me, okay? You're not a burden, Mike. I love you. Get some rest."
He muttered something that he hoped sounded somewhat like he returned the sentiment, but he couldn't truly be inclined to care as he slipped deeper towards nothingness. At least, with the washcloth covering his eyes, the darkness swallowed the little black dots and kept his world right-side up.
There had been a time when he'd embraced the little black dots like old friends, could pass a sobriety test even with the world off-kilter. There'd been a time when no one truly saw what he went through every minute of every day, or rather, cared enough to do something about it.
But Harvey had.
He'd fought for him at every turn, been there for him through every doctor's appointment, every test, every treatment. He'd changed his life in ways he could never repay.
Of course, it was a chronic condition, something they could treat and monitor, but never truly cure. It was his reality. The migraines would more than likely never go away.
But neither would Harvey. And knowing that was better than any cure.