This Game is 90% Mental

So, I already posted this over on LJ, but since it's going to be something of a Project over the next few days (possibly weeks) to dump my fic here, I figured I'd start with a recently-released edition. I've tried the import function twice, and honestly, most of the non-fic stuff on LJ, I'm just as happy to leave there.

Anyhoodle.

Title: Sartoriophilia
Author: o_contrary
Fandom: Suits
Pairing: Pre-slash Harvey/Mike
Rating: PG
Word Count: 658
Summary: It’s possible that Harvey has a slight addiction to his clothing.
Disclaimer: This is every bit as fictional as the word I made up for the title. Characters are property of USA Network. This is a transformative work of fiction and no copyright infringement is intended. No money is being made, please don’t sue.
Warnings: Minor spoilers for 1.05 and 1.06. Unbeta’d.
A/N: I blame Harvey, and Tom Ford. And also robanybody, because I’m sure this is her fault somehow.

~*~


For all his many layers of clothing, it would be difficult for anyone to mistake Harvey Specter for a modest man, as every stitch is painstakingly tailored to hint deliciously at what lies beneath.

He loves the way his button-downs remain exquisitely crisp, even at the end of a long day, sometimes even to the next morning. Harvey will never wilt before his shirt does.

Then there's the drape of his pants, silk-lined cashmere, merino, gabardine, somehow soothing, no matter how stressful the day gets. The vests, the ties, the jackets, the shoes, all the finest layers that each help him through the day in their own way.

It's possible that Harvey has a slight addiction to his clothing. It's also possible, and in his mind, the more likely option whenever he’s called on it, that his body is a gift deserving of the finest wrapping.

He knows when he hangs up after Mike drunkenly gushes the news about getting the trade information that, given how Mike skated right over Harvey's command not to bring himself over with a cheerful "Alright, cool, see you in a minute," he should be at Harvey's doorstep in approximately 10 minutes. He's accomplished a task Harvey set for him, and Mike's terrible about not seeking his metaphorical pats on the head when he's stone sober, or jacked on Red Bull, or any other time.

Having stripped down for bed, Harvey sighs and reaches for his silk boxers and Egyptian cotton t-shirt (even softer than the sheets on his bed), then pulls on the sleep pants and henley of his cashmere pyjamas and checks his hair in the mirror.

He doesn't have long to wait before Mike starts pounding on the door. It's tempting to leave him to it, but Harvey actually does have more consideration for his neighbors than to actually do so. He sets his face in a stony mask before opening the door.

Mike trails off in his mangling of Gabby's name as a soft, awed look steals over his face at his first glimpse into Harvey's condo. Harvey wonders if the kid has any idea how close he is to getting punched when he calls him 'dude,' lets his voice go hard and dangerous when he reprimands him for it, but Mike blithely carries on.

It's a little insulting, quite frankly. Then his pupils blow wide when he looks, really looks at Harvey for the first time in his two minutes of drunken rambling. He tries to catch hold of Harvey's wrist when he slaps the trade secret napkin down on Harvey's palm, and that's less insulting, but Harvey deftly avoids it. He relents enough to toss Mike a "Good," when he shuts the door in his face, but Mike's voice floats through.

"Hey, when can we, uh - "

Harvey opens the door back up. "Think carefully before you finish that question."

Mike stares at him fuzzily for a moment, then casts his eyes down and has the grace to look chagrined as his previously absent self-preservation kicks in. "Uh, go over the trades?"

Harvey smiles, just a little. "Good boy." He lets his eyes travel slowly and thoroughly down and up Mike's body, just to see his cheeks flush that much more. "Sleep well." This time when he closes the door, he walks away, and nothing more comes through it.

He knows what Mike was going to ask, knows he had probably been hoping to finish that sentence with something more physical than words, because they've been dancing around it for ages, and dancing a lot closer since the thing with Trevor.

The only thing is, Harvey's body is a gift he doesn't give lightly, and never when the other party is in no shape to appreciate it fully.

Shaking his head, he puts the napkin in his briefcase, then strips down again, savoring the texture of each piece as he puts it away, and finally the feel of his own skin against his cool, soft sheets.

FIN