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Halfway through one of their regular movie Sundays, Harvey asks if he’s ever thought about remarrying.Mike keeps his eyes on John Cazale’s silhouette. Has he? Not really. Maybe when he went through the tedious paperwork when filing for divorce, or at a client’s wedding, or while watching terrible romcoms. He’s not enough of a depressed divorcee to believe he’s suddenly unloveable just because his first marriage crashed and burned; the entire process just doesn’t seem worth the trouble anymore. Avoiding bureaucracy, and all that. Isn’t that what corporate lawyers are about?“Why do you ask,” Mike deflects, focusing on his shoes, the movie, anything but Harvey’s shark grin, ready to press where it hurts and cajole Mike into another insane decision. It’s what he does.
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us.
“I don’t know,” Harvey says, chuckling into his glass of Scotch. “Why am I asking my partner about marriage?”
Bang.
“I thought you didn’t care about that.”Harvey shrugs. “I know you care, and believe it or not, rookie, that’s good enough for me.”(I haven’t been a rookie for ten years, Mike wants to say, but doesn’t. It’s an endearing pet name.)Regardless, they’re still Harvey-and-Mike, inseparable team of lawyers, best friends for an entire decade, incidental lovers. He looks at Al Pacino, then at Harvey, then at the odd stripe of untanned skin on his ring finger.Marriage mattered back then, with Rachel, who dreamed of a trophy husband and a perfect life in Seattle. He isn’t so sure it matters with Harvey—what’s tying the knot but signing a contract? Their lives are already inextricably tangled. Harvey is his emergency contact, his boss, his attorney-in-fact. Do they need to sign a piece of paper, get that on the record?He wouldn’t mind a ring, though. Not a flashy platinum band but something subtle, like his mother used to wear. They could work it out; Harvey’s often luxuriously self-indulgent but he’s not gaudy. “Hey. Look at me. You’re thinking so goddamn loud,” Harvey says. His tone is teasing, but he squeezes Mike’s hand. “Just because you can’t think doesn’t mean the rest of us won’t,” Mike snorts.“Last I checked, the world still revolved around me.”
Mikey, he has high hopes for you.
Suddenly, Harvey sobers up, his gaze so intense Mike feels stripped down to the marrow of his bones. It doesn’t bother him, and it’s supposed to be terrifying, yet he’s perfectly fine with baring his throat for Harvey, all-or-nothing Harvey, play as dirty as possible Harvey, best closer in the city Harvey.He should be scared, because Harvey’s got that glint in his eyes which means he’s about to wheedle Mike into doing something, but two years in Seattle taught him his life’s painfully bland without the thrill of following Harvey through his antics.He isn’t scared when Harvey says, “I know a guy,” like so many times before.“Okay,” Mike tells him, and lets Harvey rub circles on his skin, over the pale spot his wedding band used to cover.They’ll get it right, this time.