Summary- Mike is a seventeen year old coffee boy who comes across an overwhelmed, chubby, newly made junior associate with a giant ego, crying in an alley surrounded by cats and playing encouraging messages to himself, from himself, on a Dictaphone and that was just straight up sad. Louis and Mike Broship/Bromance.

Authors Note- Louis is a good guy when you get down to it: Season 3 people! God I love him, he's the only one who really makes me cry while laughing and his Dictaphone/ Norma-fearing tendencies are too cute. Louis is always trying to be buddy-buddy with Mike but from the start Mike was a little too Harvey-centric for it to work. So I thought I'd level the playing field.

Chapter One: Hot Chocoloate

The day like every other Saturday for Mike was filled with complicated coffee orders that honestly, shouldn't have tasted as good as they did to the usual Suits that walked around the city. He'd only worked at La tazza di caffe Piccolo - The little Coffee Cup- for all of five months, since its opening day- being one of its first employees- but he was already the favored worker thanks to his understanding of the then new coffee machine that the owner for the life of her could not work.

It wasn't hard to do that either, with his eidetic memory he only has to take five minutes from his first break on his first day to read through the manual and quickly come to understand even the finer inner workings of the newly unpacked machine, so as to double as a handy man should it ever malfunction; and malfunction it did. Often.

But despite him not being at The little Coffee Cup for long, Mike already knew the pattern of the customers inside. The people who came into La tazza could be divided into five categories: The bookies, the hangovers, the catch-up's, the eat-and-run's and the Suits.

The bookies were the kind of customers that didn't start piling in until at least ten O'clock with a book or two crammed underneath their arm or in their large bag and an order for some form of calming tea ready to spill from their lips. They sit at the back of the shop, next to the open windows and on the more comfortable furnishing and wait for their order to come to them. With an earphone in one ear and whatever track playing from their I-pod they stay a few hours before ordering another tea and a light snack, they leave soon after. Easy customers that are willing to wait.

The hangovers are usually your average working class people who have partied a little too hard but can't afford to take the day off. They came in at all hours wearing sunglasses and practically mumble their orders- some of the most concentrated coffee the world has to offer- and stand in line for that extra ten minutes where they attempt to sleep while standing.

The catch-ups didn't start appearing until after eleven in the morning on weekends and after four on business days. These customers were generally women and came in packs of two or more because whether they hadn't seen each other in a year or two days, it was catch up time. This meant taking up one of the front tables outside, where they could squish as many chairs in as possible and drinking cup after cup of soy lattes while they chattered.

The eat-and-runs were just the people who slept or lost those few precious moments that could mean keeping their jobs and could only afford to grab a cup of coffee and a pastry and eat and drink while on the move. Mike always felt a little bad for these people- having been in the situation plenty of times himself- and would often put their orders above everyone else.

Then there were the Suits, with a capital 'S'. Everyone knew a Suit when they saw them, the raised chin, the confident strides, there was always something that always held their attention unless you were interesting enough to gain a fraction of eye contact from them. There was the way they spoke, as if every word that rolled from their tongues had to be longer than three syllables if possible, their tones borderline arrogant and their suits.

Yes, their suits. If Mike hadn't taken this job, if he'd gone and accepted that pizza delivery job instead, he'd never have know about suits quite like he did now. It started as a game for the little staff of La tazza, who could identify the one with the most money. A little superficial, but an orphan high-school student with a single Grammy, a divorcee with two and a half children and two university students on barely kept scholarships were allowed to have the tiniest bit of prejudice, if only out of habit.

Mike was quick on the update, it soon became apparent that the Suits raked in the most money, paying with hundred dollar bills or shiny credit cards which were now becoming popular, what came after was a little bit difficult. Because to his untrained eyes, all the suits looked the same: excessively expensive. It came gradually, from observation and for once, not from reading- he was loath to pick up a book and spend his time reading about suits.

The first thing he noticed was the patterns. Some Suits walked in wearing the most eye catching patterns; pinstripes, aggressive plaids, checks, two, sometimes three colors. He's quick to pick up that the simpler patterned suits provide more elegance. He can only assume they have had more experience with suits, they've been through the phases, they know what they wear and what wears them. At this point, Mike is annoyed he ever thought of something along those lines.

Next, he notices the fit and for a week or two is stuck because he is often tricked by the less expensive suit because it fits better than the one that costs two thousand dollars and is too loose around the wrists. Mike now knows when someone is wearing an expensive dress shirt but has coupled with a cheap jacket because the jacket sleeve should always be at least an inch shorter than the shirt to show off the cuffs.

Not long after that Mike can tell who has more money yet when he notices the small yet effective alterations on the suits. The nips in the sides of the jackets, the pants that have been cut slim and the hem of their pants clips the edge of their polished shoes instead of bunching up, all of it shows that extra bit of cash thrown in to have someone alter their clothing.

Then come the finer points. The slim lapels, the amount of buttons on a jacket, the extra ticket pocket sewn in, the traditional flap pocket (Okay so he may have done a small amount of reading at this point.) The back of the jacket, did this customer pay an extra amount for a side vent on his jacket for a more rakish look? Or did they go with the less expensive but more reliable, classic, center vent?

Dear god, he was glad no one could read his mind because no matter how cemented suit observing as a hobby became, it was too embarrassing how caught up in it he was. Who was it who suggested this game again?

Were the pant hems cuffed? And if so were they confident enough to bring the line up to their ankles, showing the experience in wearing good suits and the longer period of time they spent writing checks for them. Mike knew about pocket squares; they should never match your tie, at all. The fabrics- and he would never admit it out loud, but the stitching. The ties - silk and skinny, always- should be the same width as your lapels. Belts should always match the color of your shoes. He knew about fixed, decorative buttons and functional buttons.

He knew about the shoes, their types and what colors should be paired with other colors, the different folds of a pocket square, cuff links, the anatomy of a collar. He knew that the tie should always be darker than the dress shirt. He knew the right place for tie bars and clips.

But most of all, he knew what suits could inspire. Sometimes he was looking at a powerful force, sometimes a suave youth, a charming gentlemen, sometimes a child playing dress up. The suit you wore transformed you. He knew all this without once ever wearing a suit himself.

So while it was hard to ignore the attitude of the Suits, he sure as hell could appreciate their confidence and their way of dress and for most part, life style. Which was why he was the tiniest bit confused about the Suit- because this guy was a Suit- that was crouched down against the dirty brick wall, right next to La tazza's dumpsters. Okay, he was a little freaked out.

His face was bent down, chin low and his knees were brought up to touch his chest, not to mention he was surrounded by four or five alley cats, each one pressing up against his suit and leaving fur behind. He petted them, head still out of sight and when one came closer he scooped it up to cuddle against his chest, like a particularly comforting childhood blanket.

Mike was going to leave, he was going to turn around, forget about the rubbish bags and go back into the now empty- save for himself- coffee shop and ignore one of the many weirdos New York had to offer. He had already started the motion when the man moved, bringing up a rectangular device up to the side of his face and pressing a single button.

"You are awesome. Everyone better look out because they're about to be Litt up!" A sure voice rang out from the device. A Dictaphone, Mike noticed as he looked closer. He continued watching as the rewound the recording and pressed play again, "You are awesome."

Rewind. Play. "You are awesome."

"Yeah I am. Like Princess Leia in a slave dress before fourteen year old boys." The man muttered, obviously trying to convince himself, like someone who spoke to loud too cover up their insecurities and Mike winced in pity when he realized the man held the same voice as the one playing on the Dictaphone.

Rewind. Play. "You are awesome."

Forward. Play. "Everybody better look out because they're about to be Litt up!"

Mike felt a stab in his chest when he heard the quiet sniffle that followed this recording. Here was this Suit in an alley, crying, surrounded by cats and playing encouragements to himself, from himself and that was straight up sad, as well as pulled at his heart strings. Not to mention it was now raining. His Grammy would be disappointed in him if he were to just walk away. With a sigh Mike placed the garbage bags on the damp ground and with silent steps approached the man before crouching down in front him, a hand reached out to encompass the wrist of the one about to rewind another recording.

"Hey," Mike whispered. "No more of that," He attempted soothingly.

The face that slowly looked up at him was honest to god heart wrenching, almost as tear jerking as Grammy's very rare disappointment. Dark hair was shaved close to his head, brown eyes were rimmed red and chubby cheeks bore the stain of half dried tears. "What do you want? Don't kids like you have better things to do, like sell stolen watches on corner sides?" The man snarked, using a sleeve to wipe away his tears.

Mike just laughed, knowing the guy was probably trying not to feel embarrassed. He was at least a decade and a half older than him but he felt as if he were looking at a rebellious child. "Why, you interested?"

The man didn't miss a beat. "Not unless you've recently broken into the mansion of a Swiss man with a taste for Jaeger-LeCoultre."

Mike hummed thoughtfully as if thinking about it, "No. I'm afraid not."

"Pity." The man muttered, still cuddling one alley cat that Mike was surprised to notice was looking extremely pleased considering these cats hated most humans with souls. His brown eyes flickered up to meet his own baby blues, "Louis Litt. Junior associate at Pearson Hardman." He introduced with some measure of pride.

"Mike Ross, high school student and coffee boy." He returned, giving Louis a grin. "And now that we've met under mysterious circumstances, in a dark alley with a full moon up in the sky- quite romantic, flirted a bit about watches and breaking and entering and exchanged names. In the name of all romance genre cliches, I think you know what comes next." He teased.

Louis's eyes flicked up to the grey clouds and dark sky before they darted to the growing puddles on the ground and landing back on him. "I'm not going to kiss you in the rain if that's what you mean." He returned.

"No, I'd rather you didn't but I'd like to invite you in for a hot chocolate. I've pretty much closed up store but I'm in the mood for something sweet and warm now." Mike swept a hand to point at the dreadful weather, hoping he'd understand but really just wanting to feel less guilty about thinking of leaving him here.

Louis stood, showing himself to be only half a head taller than the seventeen year old. He cleared his throat, "Only if hot chocolate isn't code for anything and by something sweet and warm you don't mean this." He gestured to his body and his wet suit, cat still cradled in one arm like it was made of gold and had descended from the heavens. "Because, my body is a sacred temple that the impure constantly try to over power, are you impure Mike?"

"I'm not sure what you- no. No, I'm not impure Louis." Whatever the hell that meant.

Louis stared, looking as if he were trying to read Mike's soul before sniffing. "Well, let's get some hot chocolate."

Please let me not regret this. "Sure. Did you want to bring the cat?" Mike had no idea if cats were allowed in the cafe but he figured as long as he kept it out of the kitchen area and cleaned up after Louis left, it would be fine.

Louis nodded, "I'm appreciated by the feline race, they know what's worthy." He said as he brought the stray closer and scratched at its left side making it mewl happily, it's purring becoming louder. "Many cultures have worshiped the cat like gods. So really, it's like being chosen by a god."

He really seemed to like cats so Mike just smiled and said: "Dogs have owners and cats have servants." To Mike, Louis seemed more of a dog with a cat appreciation. No cat would be that ungraceful, but still, Mike thought Louis was a warm soul underneath all that obvious ego which was used to cover up his equally obvious -five minutes ago- sadness and loneliness.

"Exactly!" Louis snapped his fingers, following behind the younger one into the cafe.

Mike laughed, "Take a seat. I'll go get you a towel." He said to the slightly eccentric man, eyeing his wet suit and knowing it would probably never be the same.

Ducking around the counter to cross to the back, Mike grabbed one of the fluffy blue towels that were reserved for rainy days and walked back to Louis to hand it to him, "Here you go-" He cut off abruptly now noticing that Louis had taken his shirt off and was walking around casually like it was an everyday occurrence.

"Oh. Yeah, I'm pretty confident about all this. Admire away, the result of years of mudding." Louis answered Mike's unvoiced question. "Skin like a baby's bottom. I play tennis too."

Mike tried not to rudely stare or make a sarcastic comment, getting the feeling that it happened to Louis often and instead asked, "Mudding, like the motor sport?"

It was apparently the wrong thing to say as the towel Louis was using to get himself dry suddenly dropped to the ground. He stared at Mike in horrified disbelief, "Motor sport? Motor sport? No, Mike, mudding is not a motor sport. Mudding is a way of life, a fine art where mud is carefully selected from around the world, brought to the correct temperature and placed in the appropriate containment unit where you can relax and enjoy great music and even better mud." All this was said with a lecturing tone as if he was teaching Mike about the reality of life.

"Dude, you mean mud baths?" Mike asked, confused and honestly contemplating what the risk of edging back was.

Louis just shook his head slowly, looking at Mike as if he had just drooled all over his shirt but to polite to say anything about. "You uncultured piglet." Or not.

Mike threw his arms up in the universal declaration of surrender, "Okay, okay. I'm sorry I don't know much about mudding but even I can tell you have serious mud cred." He tried, the slightest bit amused, "You're very passionate."

"Mudding is passion." Louis replied.

"I can tell." Mike rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully and hesitated slightly, "Would you still like that hot chocolate?" He asked wearily.

Louis sniffed, calming down from his inspiring speech. "Yes, thank you, Mike."

.

.

.

Mike placed the steaming hot chocolate down on the table Louis had chosen with the stray. The small cup sat on a white decorative plate that held two marshmallows and a teaspoon. He watched Louis pick it up and sip on it. "This is good," He murmured, "What is this, mint? And something else?" He asked.

"Raspberry. Mint and a squirt of raspberry." Mike answered before asking a question of his own. "I don't mean to pry and you don't have to answer if you don't want to but, what exactly were upset about?"

Louis threw him a indignant look, "What makes you think I was upset?"

"You were sniffling in a dark alley surrounded by cats." Mike said flatly, all the while trying to keep his face straight. You were playing recordings of yourself telling yourself how awesome you were, for gods sake!

It was silent after that, nothing but the strays loud purring, the pelting of rain hitting glass and pavement and the clinking of cup hitting saucer. Louis would sip his hot chocolate and pet the stray who was looking less likely to ever forget about this place as the minutes ticked on and when Mike had already given up the thought of Louis answering to a seventeen year old, he did.

"You're a cute looking boy Mike, very rakish, you look light on your feet." Louis said quietly.

Mike shrugged, unapologetic and tried to not look like he was preening because, yeah, he was pretty attractive thank you very much. "I wont apologize for my lithe frame." He was well aware many dancers envied his stature.

"You've got that boyish charm, all that dirty blonde hair and chilly blue eyes. You've got this sense on naivety to you, people are probably attracted to like a moth to a flame or like the titanic to that iceberg- don't know how the hell that happened. And you're nice too, like mother Teresa- bless her soul- nice. I could have been a weirdo with some creepy hobby and you invited me in for hot chocolate- not a good idea, by the way." Mike wanted to point out that Louis sort of was a weirdo with a creepy hobby but didn't.

"I used to have posters of guys like you up on my wall while in college." Louis admitted easily, like it was normal for a guy to have pictures of pretty boys up on their walls like a thirteen year old fan-girl in college. "I wanted to be the one who got invited to parties and talk about ending war through flower tossing and smoking weed. I wasn't but I wanted to be."

"It was probably for the best." Mike said and was given a 'shut-up-I'm-monologing' look from Louis in return. "Sorry, please continue."

"But that was okay with me because my time would come. I could deal with being picked last in gym class, being tripped up in the hallways and the eight years of being called Lardy Louis because one day, I knew, these people would all be serving me burgers as I drove through in my yellow Lamborghini with leather seats and 'You just got Litt up' painted on the sides." Louis smirked, Mike just gaped.

"Then you became a lawyer?" Mike asked, trying to figure out where this was going.

Louis nodded, "I went to college, got the same treatment. Then I was off to Harvard. I worked hard Mike, graduated in three years without friends. I spent every waking minute in the library, pushed, bit, stabbed and stomped on those who got in my way and my reward was supposed to be a place where I was a person. Someone to be respected, someone who had opinions and good advice to give. Pearson Hardman is this clean pool of eliteness that was supposed to be my baptism. But," He trailed off, eyes watery. "Even now I'm still Lardy Louis."

Mike took in a lungful of air before releasing it. "No you're not."

"What?" Louis asked, confused.

"I said, no you're not." Mike looked him straight in the eye. "Because Lardy Louis died the day you- Lawyer Louis, decided you were going stand up and do whatever the hell you wanted. If you want to drive a yellow Lamborghini, then Jesus, you are going to drive a yellow Lamborghini. Hell, one day your going to get in a private elevator, get to the roof and get in a yellow helicopter and take to the skies, you know why?"

Louis's eyes were wide, "Why?" He breathed.

Mike a slammed a hand on the table, launching to his feet and at this point, towering of Louis. "Because from the ground to that elevator to the roof to the sky, Louis Litt only goes in one direction and that is up. Louis Litt doesn't go anywhere but up in the world. He refuses to go anywhere but up."

Louis gaped at him, "You give amazing speeches. I'm feeling so empowered right now."

"Damn straight. Get up Louis." Mike ordered and Louis enthusiastically obeyed. "Where are you going Louis?"

"Up." Louis pumped himself up.

Mike cupped a hand around his ear, "Where?"

Louis yelled,"Up!"

"Where?!"

"UP! Louis Litt is moving up in the world!" They both laughed.

For next few minutes they pranced about in the empty shop, screaming out promises to the world, half of which Mike felt he would never go through, never get the opportunity to do but in the moment it felt pretty damn good. Even if he was doing it at night with a man at least a decade older than him and had mud bathing as a hobby.

"Would you shut up!" Screamed a distant voice from one of the apartments across the street, "Some people are trying to sleep here!"

"No you shut up because Louis Litt is going up in the world and you, Pearson Hardman and everyone is about be Litt up!" Louis yelled, pointing a finger in the general direction of the apartments and causing Mike to roar with laughter.

In between his chuckles he looked to Louis, "Oh dude, you are the best stranger in an alley I've ever met."

Louis grinned, "And you're the best uncultured coffee boy I've ever met."

"I bet you wish you had kissed me in the rain now." Mike quipped. "Too late now though." He nodded to the windows that showed the no longer raining street that they both hadn't noticed before.

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When Louis left, Mike had offered to take in the newly named Benji home with him, aware of the long hours baby lawyers like Louis worked. They stood outside the locked up La tazza and shook hands. "Just so you know, that was the best hot chocolate I ever had." Louis said with full confidence.

"I know, you should taste my caramel macchiatos." Mike replied with a large grin.

The answering grin Mike received was almost blinding as the fragile hope for friendship in Louis' eyes, "Maybe I should."