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Housetraining an Octopus

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Housetraining an Octopus


It's the sunlight that wakes him up.

Of course, with the huge glass windows covering nearly two entire walls of his bedroom, it's pretty damn impossible to keep the sunlight out, but normally he's awake long before any direct beam of light has the chance to rise over the adjourning buildings and turn into an annoyance that is bound to wake him up. That it's happening now means that he slept a lot longer than he usually does, and Harvey can't immediately remember the last time that happened. It was probably the morning after that fundraiser at the Four Seasons last spring, though Harvey assumes that there's still a difference between sleeping in and an alcohol-induced almost-coma followed by the hangover from hell.

So, he slept in. It's not that big of a deal. He can indulge once in a while, even if it means that he wasted away half of the morning already. Slowly, Harvey blinks against the bright early morning light and waits until his eyes adjust and he can make out the time on the alarm clock on his bedside table. 9:08 glares back at him in almost accusing red numbers, and Harvey huffs out a breath. It's not that late. He'll just skip the trip to the gym this morning – just this once – to make up for the time he wasted sleeping, and then he can go about this day as if it was any other ordinary Sunday.

For a moment he indulges in the feeling of soft sheets against his skin. He likes to keep the bedroom slightly cooler than most people are comfortable with, but it's warm underneath the blanket, and he allows himself another minute or two to get fully awake. He needs to get up soon, though, if only to start cleaning up.

He is not yet awake enough to properly remember the entire previous evening, but there's a dress shirt lying in a heap on the floor in front of the bed, and as he blinks more of the room into focus he sees a single black shoe in the doorway – and why the hell is the bedroom door open, anyway? The sock that quite probably goes along with the shoe is lying a foot or two farther into the room, and if Harvey cranes his neck a little he can see what looks like a pant leg sticking out from underneath the bed. It makes him pause for a second, trying to come up with a scenario in which he'd treat his suits so carelessly even though he knows René would kill him if he ever found out.

He's pretty sure he was neither drunk nor tired enough to justify creasing a perfectly good pair of pants last night.

Right. That's it.

He's getting up.

Only, when he pulls back the blanket and tries to sit up in bed, something holds him back. Harvey gets as far as lifting himself up to his elbows, then out of nowhere an arm sneaks across his chest and pulls him back down into the mattress with a sleepy sound of protest.

Mike.

Right.

Now Harvey remembers, and he's relieved to realize that he was neither drunk nor exhausted the previous night, and even more relieved that quite probably it's Mike's shoes and suit and his skinny tie strewn all over the floor, and not Tom Ford's finest from Harvey's own closet.

Mike's presence in his bed seems like the one trigger Harvey's brain needed to catch up on what exactly happened the previous night. They closed the Farrington case late yesterday afternoon and made it home just in time to watch the game, and then…then they forgot about the game pretty quickly and spent the entire second half of the game and the post-game analysis making out on the couch, trading lazy kisses and caresses for what felt like hours, with no real intention of taking it any further than that.

That is, until Mike's fingers started worming their way underneath Harvey's shirt, and that was all the explanation he needs for the open doors and the clothes strewn across the floor. Not that they were in any kind of frantic hurry to get into bed, but it was a bit hard to put things away in some sort of orderly fashion while trying to get each other out of their clothes. Besides, Mike was a bit of a slob, anyway. Harvey doesn't exactly remember their journey towards the bed, though he does remember in detail what happened afterwards – the sight and feel of Mike stretched out beneath him, flushed skin almost hot to the touch against the cool bed sheets. They had taken their time last night, making love with no hurry or urgency, and the last thing Harvey remembers clearly is feeling warm, content and relaxed as he drifted off to sleep.

He's still feeling warm and content, but relaxed took flight the moment he discovered the clothes strewn all over his bedroom floor. Mike is like a little kid sometimes, always needing someone to clean up after him. Or maybe the puppy-comparison isn't as far fetched as Mike always wants to make him believe. But if he thinks for one moment that Harvey is going to become his maid and clean up after him, he has another think coming. No, Harvey is going to pick Mike's clothes up from the floor, and then he's going to dump them right on Mike's head, one by one, and let's see if he keeps on sleeping while his polyester pants are trying to suffocate him. Harvey is not going to be there to watch it, though, he'll be busy caffeinating while Mike cleans up his mess.

It's a good plan considering that it's ten past nine in the morning and he has been awake for less than five minutes, but as Harvey makes move to get up, the arm around his chest tightens and pulls Harvey down into the nest of blankets again. A cold nose nudges against the side of Harvey's neck, and Mike makes a low rumbling sound deep in his throat that almost sounds like a purr. Do puppies purr? Harvey doesn't think so, and in any case it's a bad mental image to compare the naked man in his bed who's currently trying his best to wrap himself around Harvey's equally naked body with a furry little animal.

An octopus maybe, considering the way Mike is trying to tangle what feels like way more than two arms and legs around him. Yeah, Mike is doing a veritable octopus impression right now, even if the little snuffling sounds he makes against Harvey's throat remain distinctly canine.

God, what is wrong with him?

Harvey makes another half-hearted attempt to extract himself from Mike's clutches, which earns him another sleepy sound of protest.

"I'm trying to get up here," Harvey mumbles, surprised that his voice still sounds far more sleep-hoarse than he would have thought. Mike shakes his head against Harvey's shoulder and those octopus-arms tighten around him.

"Stay. 's still early."

Harvey is fairly sure that 9 a.m. doesn't count as early by most people's standards, but apparently that's another rule which applies to anyone but Mike.

"It's past nine. And just so you know, your clothes are a mess strewn all over my bedroom floor."

Mike makes a non-committal grunt in the back of this throat, and if the news that he left a mess in his wake last night bother him in any way, he definitely doesn't let it on. In fact, he seems pretty unconcerned about the whole issue and far more wrapped up in the task of tying their limbs up in elaborate knots.

"Later," he breathes out against Harvey's skin. His hands are skimming over Harvey's sides and chest – not that Harvey is complaining, really, because Mike has got some pretty talented hands if Harvey is in any position to judge. He makes what could almost be described as grabby motions, as if he's searching for something to hold on to, before his hands settle against Harvey's sides below his ribcage, fingers clasping the little extra flesh that even Harvey can no longer deny is there. There's a reason for his daily trip to the gym, after all, a trip which Mike's clingy cuddling is keeping him from today.

After a few long moments of shifting around Mike finally seems to have found the position he's been looking for, and he settles against Harvey's chest with an audible sigh and seems content to stay like that for the rest of the morning. Which completely ruins any plans of getting up Harvey might have had, and when exactly did it happen that he no longer has any voting rights in his own damn bedroom?

"Mike." He nudges the younger man in the side, but Mike merely tightens his arms around him and presses a kiss against Harvey's bare chest. "Aren't you planning to get up at all?"

"No. 'm comfortable."

Fact is, Harvey can't deny that Mike is right. It is comfortable. Mike's skin pressed against him from head to toe is wonderfully sleep-warm, and even though Mike is practically lying half-atop of him, he could probably fall back asleep like this. Since apparently it's been decided in absentia that Harvey is not going to leave the bed anytime soon, he does what he's best at: he adapts to the new situation with poise and dignity, just as if he had planned for exactly this to happen.

Besides, the way Mike is draped across his chest is practically an invitation to run his fingers up the younger man's spine, a slow deliberate movement from the small of Mike's back up to the nape of his neck, and he relishes in the small shudder that runs through Mike's body at the movement.

Harvey can feel the smile tug at the corners of his mouth as Mike presses even closer, hand sliding up over Harvey's chest until it rests splayed over his heart. It's rare to see Mike like this, quiet and unmoving, without that restless energy that normally renders him unable to just sit still for any length of time. Now he is still and unmoving, though, back rising and falling gently in time with his breaths and his heart a slow and steady thrum that Harvey can feel against his ribs. Mike's hair is completely mussed, standing up in all directions, and there's a small content smile playing around his lips, and Harvey is convinced that it's completely impossible to be more adorable than Mike right now, in this moment.

Not the way puppies are adorable, either. Or octopuses…octopi…octo…tentacled marine animals. Which aren't adorable by definition, but it's early in the morning and Harvey has a naked Mike plastered all over him, so he doesn't really expect any higher level of coherency from himself.

Bottom line is, Mike is his very own brand of adorable, and while Harvey is never going to admit it out loud, he treasures these moments. They're too few and far in between, and considering that he can almost forgive that Mike's suit and his ridiculous skinny tie are still a rumpled mess on his bedroom floor. Almost.

Maybe for just a little while.

"All right," he hears himself say even though he can't recall any conscious decision precluding his words. "Half an hour."

He can feel Mike's smile against his skin, and those octopus arms tighten even more around him.

"Love you, too," Mike mumbles and just a few second later he goes completely limp against him, breathing deep and even as he drifts back off to sleep.

Completely and utterly adorable.

Harvey runs his hand through Mike's tousled hair, then leans up to press a kiss against his forehead before he sinks back and allows himself to relax into the sleep-warm cocoon of blankets, pillows and Mike.

He'll give it half an hour, but then he's going to get up and continue to housetrain his puppy-eyed octopus. He has the feeling it's going to be a lifelong mission.

Somehow, he doesn't mind.

Mike makes that strange content purr again, and it's easy to drift off to the sound and feel of it against his skin.

No.

He doesn't mind at all.


The End