Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of Suits. No copyright infringement is intended.

Inspired by a prompt over at suits_meme that asked for an explanation for Mike's parents' deaths that did not involve a car wreck and also featured Harvey finding out about it somehow and then having to deal with Mike. With that in mind, please be aware that this story discusses cancer as seen through the eyes of a child and alludes to suicide. Nothing graphic, but I do not wish for anyone to be caught unawares as these are sensitive topics.

And I swear the next thing I write will have nothing to do with Mike's parents or Sad Mike in Snow.

Harvey is five steps ahead of him, pushing the deceptively welcoming oak wood doors open before he notices he is alone and glances over his shoulder.

"You waiting for me to hold the door open for you?"

Mike stares at him and swallows hard. "I can't go in there."

"What do you mean you can't?" Harvey narrows his eyes and steps towards him, as if he is contemplating the possibility of dragging Mike into the building with him.

Intellectually, Mike knows that it is just a building and, in order to interview one of their clients, he will have to go inside of it. He repeated these simple facts to himself on the way over, but the mantra and his courage fell apart just five steps outside the Hospice House. He works his jaw and then bites his lip to keep from letting out more than he can handle. Taking a slow, deep breath, he looks away from Harvey, and repeats: "I can't."

Mike can feel Harvey's eyes on him, studying and noting each of his movements. He wonders what Harvey makes of his hunched shoulders, of the steady clenching and unclenching of his fists, of the purposeful breaths. Does he see a failure and a disappointment? Does he see a little boy pretending at being an adult? The older man gives nothing away. He nods and says, "Wait here" before disappearing inside.

Mike finds a stone bench to sit on and runs through the possible outcomes of his refusal to follow Harvey inside. He spends thirty minutes thinking of the ways in which he has screwed up his life, knees jackhammering in time to his racing thoughts. Harvey's going to fire him. Or let Louis have him after all. Or announce to the firm that Mike deceived them all and press charges, leaving Mike to rot in jail. He is so preoccupied with each new horrific scenario that he fails to notice Harvey walking up to him.

"Mike." He sighs and shakes his head before sitting down on the bench next to him. "Tell me."

He doesn't want to, but something about the way Harvey says the simple phrase relaxes the set of his shoulders, slows the pace of his bouncing knees. Mike would never use the word 'gentle' to describe anything about Harvey; there is no doubt that this is a command to explain what is going on, but the way he pitches his voice low and soft makes it sound like it isn't an order, like maybe Harvey wants to know instead of needs to know.

Mike looks down at his shiny, black dress shoes, focusing on the small scuffs and nicks instead of making eye contact.

"Tell me," Harvey repeats.

And so he does.

He's nine years old the first time he hears the word. He won't understand it for another two years, but the first time he hears it, it's from a girl in his third grade class. When he asks her why she is crying during lunch, she looks at him, big brown eyes full of something that Mike doesn't understand, and says that her grandmother has cancer. It's just a word to him then, but the way she says it, it's hushed and sad and empty and terrified, as if she is whispering a word of dark power. He wonders at the way her mouth forms it, as if the word itself has the power to destroy. It's not until he is eleven years old and standing in his mother's hospital room that he begins to understand that it does.

He sees the way it cripples and distorts, the way it stretches everything too thin—skin and silences and nerves and patience and hope. He thinks he is too young to deal with something so big, so monstrous, but then looking at his father's face, he thinks that maybe his father feels the same way. Mike watches the lines on his father's face deepen and the way his clothes seem to grow too large, as if his parents are linked by this horrible word and it's feeding off both of them. He sits on the hard, uncomfortable chair next to his mother's bed and listens to his father chant softly "It's not fair, it's just not fair" in time to his mother's shuddering, rattling breath.

His mother is gone before she is truly gone. The last time he really talks to her, she holds him and simply cries because even then she is easily confused about what is happening and when. For a long time, he thinks it's unfair that his last memory of her voice is tainted with tears. After that, the doctors make her "comfortable" and, even at age eleven, he knows that they are lying. There are pumps with buttons that people push for her when she moans or grimaces or manages to work up enough energy to shift slightly on the starch white sheets on her Hospice bed. He learns not to touch her because even the simple act of hugging or kissing her on the cheek like he used to is enough to make her cry out in pain. He is desperate for reassurance, for hugs and hand holding; his mother used to tease him about being starved for attention even while she smiled at him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Not being able to have that contact leaves a gaping hole inside him that he doesn't understand how to fill.

His Gram tries. She pats his hair down when it sticks up in the back, asks about his day, helps him with his homework because she insists that it is important to keep up with school, and makes sure he eats something for dinner. She tries to do the same for her son, but is met with silence and blank looks.

When his mother dies, Mike cries for hours, sobs racking his small frame until he makes himself sick. He never sees his father cry. Sometimes, Mike hates being smart, being able to read people. When the men from the funeral home come to collect his mother's remains (and he thinks that is such a stupid word, because nothing of her actually remains), he can see the way his father finally and completely breaks. He looks at the black bag laid out on the stretcher and the last bit of him is gone; he collapses inward like one of those great black holes that Mike recently read about in his science book. His father moves around, nods, signs papers, and shakes hands, but he is no longer there.

Mike lives with his father's remains for three months before those too are collected and taken away.

Mike feels the steady, almost painful, pressure of Harvey's grip on his arm. It's only then that he realizes he is no longer talking, just staring at nothing. He gives a sharp nod to let Harvey know he isn't lost in the murky depths of childhood memories. Harvey squeezes his wrist hard enough to leave bruises, anchoring him in the here and now, before removing his hand.

"Okay, rookie?"

Mike nods and runs a hand across the bridge of his nose, thankful to find he hasn't been crying. "Sorry."

Harvey glares at him as if that is the stupidest thing he has ever said, which is impressive as Harvey has seen him drunk and high. "For making me sit outside on a freezing, cold bench in the middle of December when I could be sitting in a warm office drinking coffee?"

Mike smirks, grateful for the easy out. "Yeah, sorry. I forgot about your delicate constitution."

"For that remark, you get to do all the paperwork on this one." Harvey stands, his shoulder brushing against Mike's in what would be a casual manner if not for the way he slyly glances at Mike in an attempt to read his expression.

Mike nudges him back, not bothering to pretend at subtlety; he gets an eye roll and an exasperated sigh for his efforts. "Don't I always?"