#whereas the only thing i remembered was this long ass sidewalk next to a big white wall we had to walk along to go up a hill to the hotel

[nowitsdarkfic]

chapter one (the girl in the gutter)

“White on white translucent black capes, back on the rack.  Bela Lugosi's dead. The bats have left the bell tower, the victims have been bled. Red velvet lines the black box... Bela Lugosi's dead.” -”Bela Lugosi’s Dead”, Bauhaus

October 12, 1988. Oswego, New York.

“Kill me now,” is what I say as I stare out the window.

The rain is my one true friend now. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to make a good friend on top of this--I’m sure everyone knows about it, the whole thing where if someone, and by someone I mean myself, wasn’t en route to a college or a university, or working a job already, they were kind of left out in the cold. Sure, there have been plenty of acquaintances, but as far as someone I could sit with and feel myself to be true with them, it’s been a while. The whole twisted thing about everything that happened was that it happened so quick. It was four years ago Scott and Frank told me I could hold the microphone in my hand. Four years ago, and last year we may as well have hiked up to the North Pole and stood up a big black flag with the word “NOT!” emblazoned on it, beholding the fact we had conquered the world in the wake of Cliff’s ashes. We rose up like the phoenix, and I was the man on fire.

There is absolutely nothing like standing out in the rain with all of your things taken out from the studio, slung over your shoulder, and your old band mates were the ones throwing you out there into the darkness while the gutters overflow over your head. There isn’t a feeling like it.

And if anyone believes that I had had enough, know for a fact I was asked to leave. I had vowed to rid of the problem, to replace all of the booze with black coffee. I mean, Jesus, I like to have fun with this sort of thing. What’s the point of doing it if I’m not going to have a little fun with it all every now and then? And it’s not like I was drinking a ton so to speak--at least I wasn’t doing those drug loaded pirate raids the four of them would do with Skid Row and Ratt. But I specifically recall telling Scott, verbatim, after he threatened to leave if I did nothing, that I would not have a sip of alcohol as long as I was a member of the band. And yet, for whatever reason, that promise did not suffice or click with any of them.

I think the sound of my phone ringing this morning and waking me up will haunt me for as long as I live. I still hear Jonny’s voice on the other end, telling me it was official. They had made the decision behind closed doors and I had been thrown out on my ass as of that morning, but he never elaborated why.

The next thing I remember was asking him why and the sound of the other end hanging up. No, Jonny, come back. Come back!

Fuck.

I lay there for a minute on my recliner before I even hung up the phone myself. I just reposed with the mouthpiece of the phone pressed to the side of my face, and the cord laying on my neck while I heard the drone of the dial tone right in my ear. They were like my friends, my first friends in a long time following high school, and yet they still showed their dark face to me. Something told me I stood at fault.

It was my fault. It was my fault the band was in turmoil and Frankie and Charlie had that massive blow up that day. It was my fault the new album coasted on the success of Among the Living. It was all my fault.

Once I hung up the phone, I could only crawl back into bed. I only did it for a bit because I refused to mope and wallow in my misery. Even as I took a walk outside, jacket zipped up and hands in my pockets, struggling to hold my head up high even though I sustained a huge punch in the stomach and slap in the face, within time, the lake began weeping with me. There’s a trail that runs along the water’s edge and when I’m in a depressive mood such as this, I take a walk along the soft earth there--I’m half Indian, I feel the cold earth deep within my soul. It’s a part of me. It’s my heart. Since it’s October, and the eve of my twenty-eighth birthday, the lake effect makes its way here, and often when I least expect it.

At one point during my walk, I noticed those feathery plumes emerging from the top of the water. I could feel the cold wind running through my hair and upon the crown of my head. I had to stop in place right next to boulder twice as large as me to better feel the cold. I had faith they were the act for me, such that I felt it in my bones. There’s nothing like this very feeling here.

They say someone is most themselves when they’re alone. Well, if the tears welling up in my eyes due in part to the pain in my chest or the incoming frigid rain should note anything, it’s that I’m alone.

When I came back to my apartment, I crawled inside of my own kitchen and a tiny box of Mike n Ikes for a bit. It’s not enough. A hollow skinny man needs to be filled up again. Maybe when the rain clears up a bit I’ll walk down to the Bitters for a cup and something of substance—a cup of Joey rather. It is a few hours before I turn twenty-eight, after all.

Twenty-eight years old. I joined Anthrax when I was twenty-three. It feels like a thousand years ago.

If there’s anything my mom taught me it’s to not bar grudges, though. No. I’m not like that. I don’t want to be like that. The very thought of such a thing nauseates me and leaves me feeling nothing more than disgusted with myself.

Oh... my mom. The very thought of her eases the pain and warms me up from within. It’s like eating soup on a freezing day: the room may be cold but the belly’s warm and that’s all that matters.

She and my dad are out of town right now, and I have no way of telling them I was fired because I don’t know if they left their hotel and are on the road at the moment, or not.

Twenty-eight years old and I’m spending it by myself. I live alone. I’m sitting here on my window sill looking out to the courtyard down below and watching the rain streak down the window pane. I feel the earth in my soul and she’s crying for me.

I don’t think this rain will let up any time soon and this candy is doing nothing. It’s not soup. And so I get up and head into my room for a change of the clothes and a warmer jacket: yeah, I should probably get out of this pajama shirt.

I’m taking my clothes off and out of the corner of my eye, I see my reflection in the mirror on my closet door. I’m standing there in the middle of my room in my underwear and holding a pair of jeans by the waistband, and I so happen to see this scrawny young guy staring back at me.

Not even a few hours after my release and I can see I’m wasting away, turning into nothing more than a skinny little sack of bones. My stomach is so slim, it’s like the top of a table. No, it’s like a broken, caved in surface of a table. I touch my skin, which is like touching a soft thin layer of cotton piled up on hard plywood. I need to eat something. No drinks, though: I’m not that cowardly.

I put my pants on and, once I’m zipped up, I run my fingers over my waist again. So thin.

Funny, it wasn’t more than a couple of years ago when we were in that warehouse filming the video for “Madhouse,” and I could look at my own face in the mirror across from me and feel like I had a lot going for me. I had a baby face, all round and sweet with these brown eyes and all of this black hair piled about my head, all of it as tightly coiled and coarse as the mane of a horse, and some of it springing up over the crown of my head. Now, I look like I aged about twenty years in no more than thirteen months. One of the many problems of being indigenous: I’m still just a young buck but I look like a senior with my skin sinking in and forming these odd lines. The fact I’m as skinny as I am adds to it.

I don’t feel like putting a shirt on. I changed out of my shirt for no shirt, how ‘bout that! So I put on my sweater over my body instead followed by my leather jacket. I’ve got this down.

I leave the apartment with the keys in my pocket and the hood pulled over my head, the sweater under my black leather, and my hands in the upholstered pockets. Even though there are clouds blanketing the sky overhead, I can tell the sun is setting and the light is fading. It’s a bit of a walk down to the Bitters but I’m hungry enough—I can walk there in time to get some food in my stomach and then boogie back with the last bus ride back to the complex.

Until then, I’m the man in black on this chilly evening, the tall wiry shadow making serious headway two and a half miles down the road. I have my head bowed to keep the rain out of my eyes. Maybe if I got the hell out of this town and wormed my way into the city like the little parasite that I am, Scott and the boys will take me back. I was the strange one after all: Scott and Danny had wives, Charlie and Frankie had girlfriends, whereas I went home alone. They were the essence of the city, I stood there pulling corn kernels out of my teeth. But on the other hand, out here in the sticks, I have no doubt this is home. It may not seem like much and there is a lot of bullshit to go about especially if it’s not living up near the colleges where my complex is, but for me, it’s home. I was born here, my parents live here, and my grandparents are buried in the cemetery.

I reach the corner and I feel the candy having not done enough for me. I can’t make it to the Bitters like this with my own stomach eating away at me.

I stop in place to catch my breath. I can’t do it. I need to get on the bus.

I glance to my right at the sight of the bus stop itself on the sidewalk up ahead and I take that opportunity; once I reach that glass case, I have both hands resting on my belly, I am absolutely starving.

It takes my boarding the bus and taking the seat next to a woman with long dark hair and wrapped in a raincoat when I realize this thing is taking me all the way out to the golf course and the country club. Oh God.

My stomach is killing me, and it only gets worse with the woman next to me stepping off before the interchange onto the highway. I have my back against the wall and my hands all the way into pockets, and my fingers up against my belly. The one thing separating me from my own skin is a small piece of flannel. I’m losing it, that is if I haven’t already lost it.

I’m watching the lights from the wharf illuminate the clouds overhead with the color of an orange creamsicle. The hunger and the candy having done enough is killing me. The country club is this way, and I think there’s also a bar nearby. Not that I want a drink but it’s one thing to bear in mind. Once we lumber closer to those low lights springing out of the darkness, I ring the bell over my head.

Even with the lights glowing out from the wharf, I can see the lake effect further taking place right now, which means I need to get a move on to shelter. This rain is already ridiculous and my pants are getting wet. I have my head bowed to keep the rain out of my eyes, but even that’s not enough. I’ve got an ache in my belly and I’m cold, but I’m not too far.

I feel a chill run up my spine and then bring my arms closer to my body. That bar is here somewhere, but where? The chill is growing worse and no matter what I do, I continue to feel cold. Where the hell is it?

I stop when I notice the figure in black, full in the middle and taking the shape of an hourglass, and with nothing more than a wispy cloud over its head. My skin is practically crawling at this point from the rain, which I feel will turn into snow at any given moment, and it’s only made colder by the sight of her, the sight of Death. She points a skeleton hand at me, stopping me dead in my tracks.

“Are you dead?” she asks in a voice that sounds like it’s about a mile away on the shores of Lake Ontario.

“N-No,” I stammer out, although I feel like I could be dead given my friends shut me out, my stomach is in agony, and the impending snow might freeze me above anything else.

“You must be on your way,” she retorts.

“I swear to you—my hand on my grandfather’s ashes—that I am not dead.”

“What’s your name, then?”

“Joseph Anthony Bellardini.” My voice is strong despite the incessant shivering. “But call me Joey Belladonna.”

I watch her fade out into the shadows and the cluster of spruces, bones and everything, like she never existed. I stand there, my hands crammed into my pockets and my teeth chattering like crazy. Was that Death? And if it was, does that mean I can go where it’s warm? And I still haven’t found the entrance to the country club, much less the bar.

A noise catches my ear. It’s dark except for the glow of the harbor lights and the stupid power plant over in the hills; but I look about the street until I spot the faint silhouette of a woman sprawled over the edge of the sidewalk. I look around and I can see I'm the only other person to be seen here.

I tug on the edge of the hood and run up the wet concrete. The snow is upon us, and running up the sidewalk in Chucks is dangerous, but I know for a fact there’s no one else around. I can see her face and once she comes within my line of sight, I can see the rope tied about her ankles. Once I reach her, I take a look into her rounded pale face and her black hair. She looks familiar...

It takes me a minute to see it’s the woman next to me on the bus. How’d she get here? I set one knee down next to her on the wet sidewalk, which soaks my jeans even more, but that’s the least of my problems right now.

“Hey! Hey, are you okay?” I ask her in a gentle voice. I reach for her face to look right at her.

“Are you okay?” I repeat. In the dim light, I see her part her lips but she never opens her eyes for me.

“He—Help—”

“It’s alright—it’s alright.”

“Help me—″ she sputters. I hear her groan in her throat and I knew something had happened that had to do with Death back there. The rain is relentless and my body is aching from cold and hunger but I know the club and the bar are not too far from here. I put my arms around her: she’s heavy! And the rope around her ankles only makes it harder for me. But I lean her head and shoulders against my chest, and once I stand to my feet, I clasp her to my chest with my right hand and brush her wet hair from her eyes to examine her face with my left. Even in the darkness, I can tell she’s gorgeous.

I glance around the block until I spot something on the other side of the street, like tucked behind something else. That’s either the bar or something else.

“Come on—come with me,” I coax her gently as I scoop her off of the sidewalk: my aching belly pains me even more, but I need to help this poor lady. “It’s okay—I’ve got you.” I adjust myself so that I can carry her without my back hurting on top of everything else.

“I'll take you where it’s warm,” I promise to her over the roar of the rain.

“Please—” her voice slips out from her lips like a piece of wind; “don’t hurt—me—”

“I won’t. I won’t, I promise.” I hold her close to me as I guide her down the sidewalk: it’s tricky because of the rope but I don’t think I have my pocket knife with me.

God dammit.

I reach the corner and I stop to move the hair from her face again. The light is a little better and as a result, I make out a narrow dark crease the length of my pinkie finger on her forehead. Whoever left her there must have left her there to die, hence my encounter with Death.

“What’s your name?” I ask her as the rain patters even harder around us. Even though I have her head against my chest, I smooth her hair back from her face even more. I just have the glow from the lights of the club nearby as my guide, but I can look right into her face. “What’s your name?”

“Maya,” she almost breathes it, her lips parted not even by a hair.

“Maya?” I repeat it because everything is so loud.

“Yes--” She’s fading fast. I slide my other arm under her thighs to better carry her. The dead weight of her body pulls me down like an anchor. I’ll starve to death before I let this woman die out here in the cold and wet.

“Okay, Maya. I’m Joey. Let’s go where it’s warm.” And without another word, I run across the grass to that little building tucked out of sight. I hope it’s the bar and not something else.

[statusquoergo]

I'd love you forever if you could write something with associate Harvey meeting Mike? Or just a younger Harvey meeting younger Mike. Thank you!

Read on AO3

2003

“Hey! Watch it!”

“Shit—!”

Harvey steps back abruptly, his arm flailing to catch hisbalance as the heel of his still new-ish Brooks Brothers wingtip hits the curb.Because he can’t catch a goddamn break today, the Thompson file flies out ofhis hand, scattering across the sidewalk, and Jessica is going to kill him.

“God dammit, kid,” Harvey seethes, brushing flecks of mudfrom his coat with moderate success. “This cost more than you make in a year!”

The kid, a scrawny little blond who can’t possibly bemore than twenty-four years old, jumps off his bike and stoops to gatherHarvey’s fallen papers; shit, he’ll get them all out of order and Harvey’s onlybeen on this case for two days but he’s already sick of it.

“Sorry,” the kid says, not particularly sounding it.“That asshole totally cut me off. Fuckin’ SUVs.”

“Life lesson number one, alright,” Harvey snaps as hegrabs the papers back, “take responsibility for your own goddamn mistakes.”

The kid smirks, adjusting the cheap messenger bag slungacross his chest, and Harvey sort of wants to punch him.

“I’ll try to remember that,” he says. “But you know, nexttime, you might wanna try not ramming that stick so far up your ass.”

“Listen, you little shit—”

The kid raises his hands defensively, and Harvey’s sostartled by the audacity that he actually stops speaking.

“Sorry, man,” he repeats, sounding at least marginallysincere. “Sorry. Can I…make it up to you? Buy you a cup of coffee orsomething?”

Harvey stares at him; he sounds like he’s reciting a linefrom every generic rom com ever made. There’s absolutely no reason to take himup on the offer. Harvey really does need to get back to the office, and thiscase really is driving him up the wall; it’s shaping up to be another longnight, the fourth in a row, and Harvey’s had it up to here with this pro bonocrap, but Jessica must have decided that he has a special touch for it orsomething because it’s all she’s given him of late and he’s having a hard timebelieving it’s just some rite of passage for new associates.

The point is, he should decline.

“Make it a sandwich,” he retorts instead. The kid raiseshis eyebrows and looks to be fighting a smile; he’s an obnoxious smartass,that’s for sure, but there’s something endearing about him, somethinginherently honest.

Harvey’s life is woefully bereft of honesty.

“Aye aye,” the kid salutes. “Does his honor prefer Au BonPain or Panera?”

Harvey narrows his eyes as the kid picks up his bike andthey begin to walk.

“I look like a judge to you?” he snipes, and the kidscoffs.

“Not likely. I just meant, you know.” He gestures towardthe file in Harvey’s hands. “That’ll always be the dream, right?”

“What?”

The kid looks at him like he’s a bit slow. “You’re alawyer. Lemme guess; corporate? Although I guess in that case your billablesare probably high enough to make up for the lack of prestige.”

Harvey frowns. “Do I know you?”

“Doubt it.” The kid sticks out his hand. “Mike Ross.”

“Harvey Specter,” Harvey replies uncertainly, hesitatingbefore he accepts the shake. “And I’m more of a Le Pain Quotidien man.”

“Figures,” says Mike Ross, and Harvey isn’t quite surewhat to make of that.

—

Seated in a corner as isolated as two people can get in arestaurant that tries to be known for its open-air ambiance, Harvey rests hisarms on the table, folds his hands together, and puts on his smuggest expression.Mike doesn’t seem intimidated so much as amused, which is interesting. (Thekid’s arrogance should be sending him up the wall, why isn’t it driving himinsane?) Different.

(Different.)

“So let’s stop screwing around,” Harvey says. “How’d youknow I’m a corporate lawyer?”

It feels like a callout moment, a perfect opportunity forMike to admit that he’s a creepy stalker or a shitty private eye. He doesneither, merely gesturing under the table to Harvey’s briefcase.

“Your case?” he prompts. “Moore Inc. v. Thompson? Thelawyer part’s kind of obvious.”

Alright, that’s true.

“And corporate?” he asks, and now Mike looks alittle—embarrassed?

“Some shady company trying to throw its partners underthe bus by splitting up their federal tax returns, what else is it gonna be,”he says, looking up in a way that would come off coquettish if he wasn’tfidgeting so much. Harvey leans back, crossing his arms over his chest andwaiting for Mike to meet his gaze.

“And how the hell did you figure that out?” he asks. Mikecouldn’t have seen more than the first page of the file, maybe the first two fora few seconds each, tops.

“I’m a fast reader?” Mike shrugs. “Anyway it’s basicallythe same as United Dominion Industries v. Unites States, isn’t it? What’staking you so long?”

“I’d be finished with it if I was representing MooreInc.,” he retorts before Mike’s words fully register in context and he cockshis head. “How do you know about UDI?”

Grinning a little too excitedly for the subject matter athand, Mike rocks in his seat like he’s been waiting for the question. “It’s theSupreme Court, man,” he says. “Gotta keep up with the new norms.”

Harvey still isn’t ready to completely rule out thecreepy stalker angle, but then the waiter shows up with his chicken curry saladtartine and refills Mike’s empty water glass and he’s not sure why, but it’sstarting to feel less likely.

“Aren’t you gonna eat something?” he asks, gesturing toMike’s drink, but Mike only rolls his eyes.

“I’ve got peanut butter at home.”

Huh.

The seconds tick by in stilted silence as Harvey takessmaller bites than he normally would and Mike looks out the window to hisright.

This isn’t as satisfying as Harvey had expected.

“So,” he says halfway through the meal. “What would youdo?”

Mike’s head snaps around as though it’s spring-loaded,his eyes wider than before. “What—what, about your case?”

“Yeah,” Harvey affirms as though it’s no big deal, “ifyou were in my shoes, how would you handle it? What’s your argument?”

Mike looks down at the table and Harvey just knows thebrat wants to make some kind of shoe pun. Wisely, he refrains from venturing down that route, his tone only a little hesitant as he tries to convey confidence in his proposal.

“The only way to get around the ruling is to prove—orconvince opposing counsel, anyway, that your client isn’t technicallyaffiliated with Moore. Since, you know, the Court only said that affiliatedcorporations need to file consolidated returns.”

It’s so obvious. So blindingly, painfully, ridiculouslyobvious.

Harvey can’t believe he hasn’t thought of it already.

It’s perfect.

Mike shrugs.

“I mean, you’d probably have to bullshit them about just how affiliated your client is with the parent company, I’m guessing, but you went to law school, you’ve gotta be usedto that kind of thing, right?”

Harvey grins. He likes the sound of that; the guys fromMoore Inc. are so used to getting their way that they’ll probably be easy to snowwith a little fancy footwork. This’ll be fun.

“I’ll think about it,” he concedes. Then, because thisfeels like a rare sort of moment, he takes another bite of his tartine and slideshis business card across the table. “Gimme a call when you graduate law school.I’ll be a partner by then, probably looking for an associate of my own.”

Mike smiles cynically as he shoves the card into his backpocket. “Thanks, Harvey,” he says, “but don’t hold your breath.”

Harvey shakes his head. “I’m pretty sure the world coulduse a lawyer like you.”

Drumming his fingers on the table, Mike looks out thewindow again as his smile softens.

“Thanks, Harvey.”

Narrowing his eyes critically, Harvey nods and stands topull his coat back on, reaching under the table for his briefcase.

“Thanks for the food,” he says, straightening his collar.“Afternoon, Mike.”

Walking out the front door, he hopes Mike has the goodsense to eat the rest of the tartine.

That kid’s going places.

—

Eight Years Later…

“What are you looking for?”

Harvey smiles to himself.

“Another me.”

Send in the next offender.

—

This is Harvey’s coat (from Louis Vuitton’s Fall 2003 Collection, approximately $800).

This is the case Mike cites (and here is a brief summary of the final ruling).

Also Harvey is being ridiculously arrogant when he says he’ll be partner by the time Mike graduates law school; Harvey began as an associate at Pearson Hardman in 2003 and the partner track takes generally between six and eleven years, depending on the firm, whereas law school takes three, and if he assumes Mike is already a first-year, or will be shortly, he’s basically saying he’ll be on a partner very-fast-track by the end of the week. (Canonically, Harvey took four years to become a junior partner, so either the Suits timeline is a mess or Harvey is the beneficiary of some extreme favoritism. I think probably both.)