Chapter Text
Mike hasn't been sleeping well, which he regrets now as words start to blur in the document in front of him. Harvey’s going to kill him if he doesn’t finish these soon.
He sighed and pushed his chair away from his desk, rubbing his tired eyes for some sort of reprieve. When he opened them again, he was met with the beady eyes of the little snowman figurine, sitting innocently right next to his stationery. It was one of the few simple ornaments he decorated his cubicle with, no matter how much Kyle and a few other associates ribbed him for it.
Snowmen were his mom’s favourite Christmas tradition. He remembered being lifted by her to hang a Frosty the Snowman ornament onto the Christmas tree. Although his childhood memories were starting to blur together, Christmases always stood out in his mind. The Rosses were not particularly religious, but they were adamant about not letting the giant holiday trump their only son’s birthday.
You were a Christmas miracle, Grammy said when he was 5. Then, they’d gather around the small dining table and feast their mouths on turkey and funfetti cake, courtesy of Grammy. Mike recalls how every Christmas, without fail, laughter can be heard from the house. His mom was always loud with it, while his dad had more of a snort. His grandma had a boisterous laugh, and he would just sit there and enjoy the domestic commotion while-
“Earth to Ross, the briefs were supposed to be on my desk 30 minutes ago."
A grouchy voice cut through his thoughts.
He opened his eyes to see none other than Harvey Specter himself, leaning over his desk with a particularly sharp glare. Mike glanced at the clock, and yep, Harvey was right. Shit, has it really been that long?
“Sh- Sorry, Harvey, must have accidentally taken a nap. I’m already done with the Jensen briefs and…” he rifles through stacks of paper, “halfway through with the McKinnon’s.”
Harvey took an angry deep breath and looked straight at Mike. “I don’t care what state they’re in, all of them needed to be on my desk ages ago. Come on, Rookie, I thought you could do the work of 4 associates combined, so what’s hogging your ass today?”
What crawled up yours and died there? Mike bit his tongue just in time before the words slipped out. Thank God he did, because Harvey was not done berating him yet.
“What? You think you get to slack off and nap just because you solved last week’s case? Well, guess what, Rookie?”
Harvey slammed the files back down at the desk, making Mike jump a bit. The other associates started to look their way.
“ This isn’t gonna cut it. And after this, there’s bound to be more and more cases hounding your ass and God help me I will haunt you too until you actually give me results I can work with. And I want not just good, but the best results, because I didn't hire a genius just for you to fall short, Puppy.”
Mike’s heart twinged at the words, but his mind reminded him he should be used to getting berated. To which his heart agreed, but Harvey had never done it in public like this. Something had soured the older man's mood today, and he had to take it out on his poor associate. Mike could feel the embarrassment start to paint his cheeks warm.
With Mike lacking his usual comebacks, Harvey took his silence as an answer and sauntered back into the hallway, presumably to let his bad mood fester in his office.
Mike wasn’t (couldn’t, really) in the mood to fight today, so after Harvey left, he just sped up his work while replaying his dad’s favourite Christmas CDs in his head.
If nobody else bothered him after that spectacle, he only had his slow ass to blame.
⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆
For someone who even wished Jim the security guard a happy birthday, he’d expected at least one (1) person at Pearson-Hardman would at least know it was his special day today. What he didn’t expect was to have double the work given to him because three other associates bailed after lunch. Traitors.
Mike was grateful for the distraction that was work, but that only lasted until he figured nobody remembered it was his special day, not even Harvey (which means Donna didn't either).
Mike can’t remember a time he enjoyed a birthday alone.
The only company he had for the rest of the afternoon were the stacks of case files he needed to proofread, which he only made a small dent in because his brain was more preoccupied with reminiscing about how his parents used to take him skating at Rockefeller.
The firm was not all that bad, though.
They eventually celebrated Christmas, sort of, somewhere past 8 PM, with alcohol and food that Mike could never afford with his associate's pay. Even then, he’d still catch himself remembering the Kung Po chicken takeout he’d eat with Grammy when biting through the soft cuts of stuffed turkey the firm ordered from the bistro down the street. Mike forced himself to chew through it and swallow either way.
Rachel noticed his quietness at the party and gave him a pitying look, shoving a gingerbread martini into his hands. “Next year, you’ll get your Christmas, Mike.”
He snorted at that. “Yeah, hopefully.”
As if the three Christmas spirits would visit and Harvey Reginald Specter would somehow stop riding his ass so hard within the next year.
He didn’t say anything else for the rest of the impromptu dinner, too lost in the memories of gingerbread cookies his mom made and Grammy’s special eggnog. His tongue failed him where his imagination didn’t, so he relished every bite as if it were a home-cooked meal from Grammy.
On the way back home, slightly stumbling from all the wine he had, his brain revs up again, almost automatically, as if to soothe him with ghostly touches and words.
Memories, at some point, started to feel like burdens to him. Weighing him down, making his feet drag from what he thinks his childhood home looks like. They become gifts with no one to give them to because everybody who turned them into something precious, something worth gifting, has been gone from his life. It made his mind hungrier than ever, constantly searching for things that only existed within itself; a brief mirage before he had to dive back into the dry, lonely reality.
His brain could not comprehend the concept of forgetting, because forgetting would be giving up to time as it takes more people from him. Forgetting would be letting down the people he loved as if they never existed. No, he wanted them to stay, and if they couldn’t, it’s fine, his memory will still have them anyway.
Nostalgia lost its comfort, instead, it was an addiction that churned out endorphins non-stop, only to turn it into painful longing, missing things that only breathed in recollection. Happier times played behind his eyes like a broken DVD, complete with his favourite scenes and HD quality, because he remembers his family longer than he has known them, and it makes the memories sharper as they stab into him, embroidering their mark forever.
Deep down, he knows his childhood was not all his mind had made it up to be, that love’s delusions made it glow brighter, but these memories were all he had left of it, and damn it if he couldn’t do whatever he wanted with them.
His feet were walking somewhere towards the subway entrance, but his mind carried him somewhere further back.
Unlike the name suggests, his memories are not very photographic. They’re more like a flood: Once one memory pops up in great detail, his brain automatically shows him all the memories related to that first one. They flow like a continuous stream of knowledge and come with the emotions present in each reminiscence. It’s easy to be carried away with the current, letting his body go on autopilot while his brain just feeds him nostalgia. So easy, in fact, he almost drowns in them.
But now, staring at the tracks, waiting for the train to pick him up, he felt so undeniably, unwillingly, and unfortunately alone.
That loneliness was paralysing. It kept him stuck in that spot, even when his train arrived and left. People kept on bustling around him, swaying him slightly back and forth. If he stood still enough, he was almost a statue that people ignored. Eventually, all that was left was him and a couple of other unlucky strangers by the tracks. Mike was not even sure the trains that were left at this hour would even remotely pass by Brooklyn. No, Mike’s mind was elsewhere entirely.
All he could do was remember.
Memories played back on loop, like a TV that nobody knows how to turn off. He was not sure when he closed his eyes, but he never wanted to open them again. He was scared, scared that if he did open them, only absence would be looking back. He wanted blue eyes similar to his own with wrinkles at the edges to greet him, but they won’t be.
Memories haunt him because his dead family couldn't. They cloud his vision, numb his senses, and suffocate him, which is fine because he wishes he couldn’t breathe either. He’d much rather be with his family on fuck knows where than be standing on the subway on Christmas.
The burden of remembering touches, words, and laughter that belong to people who are gone. The burden of having to represent them on this earth. Everybody moved on and forgot, but Mike could not afford that luxury and didn’t want to. He misses them more than he remembers them. Both options were unsatisfying.
All he could do was remember, because he was the only one who could.
Grief kept him still, but the urge to chase the past won. When he finally moved, it was with lightness, as if he were floating. He grew wings, carrying his feet, leaping. His arms reached out to catch, to grab onto those fleeing laughs and good times that’s not there anymore or ever will be but damn it if Mike didn’t try.
A raging light blinded his side, but his eyes were still closed, memories growing faint behind them as he flew and flew. Something blared in his ears, smashing into the ringing of his ears, creating a final note of a symphony.
A hand grabbed onto his arm and yanked.