“Question,” Greg murmurs to Mycroft while the man does his bowtie for him. “If you hate these people so much, what’re we doing here?”
Mycroft’s eyes flick up from the actions of his own fingers to Greg’s face, then back down again with a sigh. “Work.”
“Mm.” Greg allows himself to be turned before the mirror. The tie is flawless, of course. “Thanks,” he says. “I would’ve never got it to look so nice.”
Mycroft smiles fleetingly in the mirror, then steps away. “We should head down.”
“Do we have to?” Greg shakes out the sleeves of his dinner jacket. “Go tell them I’ve taken ill. You have to stay up here, nurse me back to health.”
“No one in this group would stay behind from dinner with an ailing spouse.”
“Ugh.” Greg follows him to the door of the guest room they’re in for the duration of the weekend. “I hate them all.”
Mycroft doesn't say ‘me, too’ out loud, but his hand at Greg’s back, slipping beneath the jacket for just one naughty second, says it for him.
Mycroft’s ‘friends’ are rarely ever friends. Greg’s learned that over the years, and knows of maybe three people who can actually be counted as real friends to Mycroft. Only one of them - Lady Smallwood - is here this weekend. Of the dozen-ish other people piled into the country home of a bloke Greg privately refers to as Oxford Arsehole Number Three, Greg only knows four others beside her, and only two of them are what he would call ‘on friendly terms’ with Mycroft.
Everyone else is, he’s pretty sure, awful - and the friendly terms ones are on thin ice, really.
Dinner - it’s Saturday, and thank god this is the last of two dinners and they’ll leave this place tomorrow after lunch - is stuffy and awful, with actual servants holding actual silver platters for guests to serve themselves from like they’re in some Merchant Ivory film and it isn’t the twenty-first century. Greg hates the entire thing. Mycroft doesn't, he’s used to it, but Greg knows for a fact he’s been picturing Oxford Arsehole Number Three’s head on the serving platters this entire time.
Greg nudges Mycroft’s ankle as a mix of nervous titters and oblivious guffaws serve as a response to another of Arsehole’s tasteless, mean-spirited jokes. He’s glad they’re seated beside each other tonight, and not half a table apart. Greg’d been saved the night before, being sat beside Smallwood and across from her very chilled out, nice boyfriend. Greg hopes this one sticks around; he obviously thinks she’s the tits, puts up with all this bullshit despite being a perfectly normal person with a perfectly normal job in finance. He’s also really into football, so Greg has someone to talk to when Alicia brings him along.
Mycroft, on the other hand, had been incandescent with rage after dinner last night, and Greg had had a hell of a time calming him down enough to go to sleep. The further Mycroft could be kept from Oxford Arsehole Number Three for the rest of the weekend, the better.
“Steady on,” Greg says out of the corner of his mouth, clocking the way Mycroft’s starting to white-knuckle his fork and knife.
Mycroft nudges him back under the table and pastes on his smarmiest smile and delivers the kind of pointed, subtly nasty comment that would make most normal people cry. Greg watches Arsehole’s face do a thing as he takes the ‘joke’, watches a flash of anger come and go, to be replaced by all the man has: empty-headed impotence.
“Yes, quite,” he says, and leaves off Mycroft to turn and be annoying at someone else.
Greg catches Alicia’s eye from where she and Patrick are watching at the other end of the table. He shrugs one shoulder and she makes a show of toying with her knife. Greg swallows a grin and gives her a nod.
After dinner there are drinks and desserts on the patio. The group splits off into the factions Greg’s started to understand over the last twenty four hours: people who somehow like their host (fellow dickheads, all of them), and people who can’t stand him but must tolerate him. The latter group consists of Greg and Mycroft, Alicia and Patrick, and two hilariously expressionless women who seem determined to get through the weekend without speaking to anyone but each other.
“Are they a couple?” Greg wonders at Patrick, who shrugs.
“No,” Mycroft murmurs from just behind Greg’s shoulder. “Sisters.”
“Relations of Richard’s,” Alicia adds.
Greg really needs to stop forgetting that Oxford Arsehole Number Three has a name. Oh, well.
“You should have come shooting, Mycroft,” Alicia continues. “Priscilla is a crack shot. Made Richie furious. It was delicious.”
Greg snorts. Mycroft hates guns. Greg isn’t the biggest fan, either, and was more than happy to spend that afternoon alternating between naps while Mycroft took phone meetings, and having a sneaky makeout session when the meetings were done.
“He’s a bit of a sexist,” Patrick observes. “I did better than he did, and he didn’t call me a twat.”
“A bit,” Alicia scoffs.
“Ugh, why are we here,” Greg moans quietly. “Next time you all feel like wasting a weekend, just come to ours and I’ll be glad to make bad jokes and serve turkey so dry it’ll stick to your teeth til you die. It’ll be just like this but without the long-arse drive and the Richie of it all.”
Patrick laughs. Greg catches one of the sisters - Priscilla, he thinks - eavesdropping and quirking a smile.
He leans around Alicia. “You’re both invited, too.”
Mycroft’s arm slips around Greg’s waist and squeezes. “No shooting in London,” he says, playing along. “Sorry to disappoint, Patrick.”
Patrick sighs. “Fine, fine. So long as the drinks are weak.”
Alicia clinks the rim of her martini glass against Patrick’s, and for a while, it’s actually fun.
Then Arsehole wanders over.
Greg wakes from a light doze and Mycroft isn’t there in bed with him. The room - ugly, fussily and stuffily decorated, and overcrowded with furniture - is dimly lit by a little lamp in the corner, and looks the same as it had when Greg closed his eyes. He reaches for and checks his mobile. It’s after one in the morning. He’s only been out for an hour, probably less.
He also has a text message.
MH (1:01am): Downstairs, hall by staircase, third door on right.
Greg sighs. Another night of an irate, antsy Mycroft, who should’ve just listened to Greg in the first place and passed on the invitation to a ‘weekend in the country.’ He could’ve let Alicia angle for favor and listen in on gossip on behalf of the security services. Mycroft doesn't have to have a hand in every-fucking-thing. But no. No. Here they are in the fucking Cotswolds, expected to perform an episode of Downton Abbey because delegating is for the little people. Or whatever.
Greg thinks all of this and more as he hauls himself out of bed and yanks on a t-shirt and a pair of sleep pants, so that if any of the Oxford set run into him at one in the morning in the halls of this wretched pile of bricks, he’ll look like the sort that doesn't sleep nude. Even as a guest. Even in a 200 year old bed. Even, Greg thinks mutinously, under a portrait that was apparently owned by an Astor at one point in time.
He’d tried to convince Mycroft to let him blow him under the same ugly portrait last night, and been rebuffed.
Or Mycroft had been too annoyed with the state of the world and the host to pick up on the hint.
Greg notices that Mycroft’s dressing gown is still hanging on the hook on the open en suite door, and snags that too, covering his ‘sleep clothes’ with it before heading out.
Down the stairs, around a corner, down the hall, and three doors on the right.
“Mr. White,” Greg drawls, leaning in the doorway. “In the billiards room.”
Mycroft glances up from his shot, bent over the pool table still in the clothes he’d worn to dinner - minus the jacket and tie but with the braces - and rolls his eyes.
“With,” Greg continues, stepping inside, “the… candlestick.”
“Close the door,” Mycroft says, firm and cold.
Greg grins, and does. There is no lock to flick. There are no other doors into this room. Just the wide windows facing out into the garden, which is lit by nothing but the moon.
“Would sir desire a cocksucking before he turns in?” Greg offers in his best Upstairs/Downstairs voice.
Mycroft ignores him and takes the shot, knocking the six into the corner pocket.
“Sexy,” Greg remarks, circling the pool table to observe Mycroft as he bends to line up another shot. “So, quick question.”
“Mm,” Mycroft prompts, which is practically a grunt for him, and takes the shot, missing.
“Did we come here because you get off on annoying Lord Fuckface Von Dickhead with my presence?”
Mycroft throws a twitchy smile over his shoulder, and quirks one eyebrow. “Would you be angry with me if I said yes?”
Greg watches him take and nail the shot, a beautifully geometrical thing that glances the cue ball off the twelve, sends that cracking into the one, which sinks that into the side pocket and moves the twelve in a spinning roll to the very edge of the corner.
“I wouldn’t say angry,” he says, while Mycroft chalks the end of the stick and scans the table. “Bit annoyed. Might feel just a tad used.”
Mycroft shifts around the table until he’s across from where Greg leans against the gleaming paneled wall. “Hm,” he offers, and sinks the twelve neatly.
He leaves the stick leaning against the table there, and rounds it, walking the length of the table with long fingers trailing over the felt. He settles on the short end between the corner pockets, leans there in front of Greg, all casual indifference. “Would you like to come over here?”
Greg bites back his grin. “Maybe.”
“Would you like to desecrate Richard’s precious new felt?”
He lets the grin out and steps closer. “Of course I would,” he says. “But first I’d like a kiss. Maybe a light cuddle. You’ve been prickly as fuck all weekend.”
Mycroft winces and opens his arms for Greg to step into, obliging him with a quick, tight hug around the shoulders before tipping his chin up with two fingers. The kiss is gentle. “I am sorry.”
“Eh.” Greg shrugs. “I like you prickly, sometimes.”
“I didn’t bring you here as some sort of… assault on Richard’s homophobia.” Mycroft nips at Greg’s chin and then along his jaw, muttering the words. “It was just… a convenient add-on bonus.”
Greg snorts. “Alright, alright. Just fill me in next time. I would’ve played it up more if I’d known.”
“No,” Mycroft says, lips finding Greg’s pulse point beneath his jaw. “You’re perfect. Just the way you are. He can’t stand it, it chafes that you are so much more—” Mycroft cuts himself off.
“Hmmm…” Greg lets his hands wander, groping down Mycroft’s back to the top of his arse. “Go on.”
Mycroft doesn't. He slips his fingers - a little cold - under the hem of Greg’s t-shirt. Greg thinks about yanking Mycroft’s shirt out of the way, returning the touch. But he likes how under-dressed he is, all pressed up against Mycroft’s finery. The buttons down the front of the dress shirt are cool even through the cotton of Greg’s tee.
“That arsehole can’t wrap his head around me, huh?” He squeezes Mycroft’s buttocks in his hands, then turns them, pressing his own lower back against the edge of the pool table, hauling Mycroft’s pelvis into his own with a grunt. “Bet he thinks you bend over for me every chance you get.”
“Yes,” Mycroft murmurs.
“Interesting.” Greg moves his hands around to Mycroft’s front, and digs into his trouser pocket. “You carried lube around all evening?” He holds up the little packets. “Really?”
Mycroft shrugs, guiltless, and quirks an eyebrow as if to say: You knew, or you wouldn’t have gone looking for it.
“Yeah, alright,” Greg murmurs, and turns, bends himself over, shoving balls across the felt so he doesn't end up with bruises on his chest. “Do it.”
Mycroft chuckles, and for a split second Greg thinks he’s going to be told not to be so silly - to come with Mycroft upstairs.
But then his pajama bottoms are yanked down in the back and then more carefully in the front, Mycroft’s cool fingers snaking around to ease them over Greg’s half-hard cock. His hands move back again, leaving it untouched.
If Greg rocks forward just a little he’ll be rubbing off on the pool table. He holds still, and Mycroft takes the lube out of his hand, fingers brushing Greg’s in a deliberate tease.
Greg sighs and settles his weight on to his heels and then on his arms, crossed over the felt, a slow, careful shift. “That door doesn't lock,” he says.
“I am aware.” Mycroft speaks through his teeth and over the sound of tearing plastic, and this is followed by a faint squelch before cool gel and careful fingers trace their way down Greg’s crack.
He can’t help but flinch. “Cold!”
“So sorry,” Mycroft says, insincere, and smears the slick roughly around Greg’s hole.
Greg moves back a little, seeking out more. “Hurry.”
“Excuse me,” Mycroft drawls, sotto voce.
“No,” Greg laughs. “I can’t tell you how much I don’t want to play games right now. The door is unlocked. Fuck me, get it out of your system, and come to bed.”
Mycroft’s finger slips past his rim easily then, a practiced move into a willing body. He twists it, curls it, and then withdraws before pushing back in with two. It’s more of a testing than a prepping. Greg grins into his own folded arms, rolling his hips back into the careless thrust of Mycroft’s fingers.
“You know,” Mycroft muses behind him, “it might be...entertaining. To be discovered. Or at least overheard.”
Greg huffs. “Like hell. Come on, I’m good, put it—”
“Kill the romance,” Mycroft sighs. “Very well.”
“Oh, shut up.”
The fingers withdraw for a moment, return with more lube, but don’t linger. A hand slaps Greg playfully on the flank, and then he’s gratified to hear braces being shrugged off and trousers being opened and shuffled down.
Mycroft huffs a little when he slicks himself, which Greg can hear. He cranes his neck around and catches Mycroft’s eye just as the man takes the last step closer, slippery head of his cock nudging at Greg’s perineum before sliding up. Mycroft smirks at him and teases, hips rocking forward to repeat the motion. Slide, slide, slide, and then a push, not steady or intentional enough to get him into Greg, but enough to suggest it.
Greg sighs and hangs his head down toward the tabletop. “You’re killing me.”
“You are fine.” Mycroft keeps up his teasing, one hand holding himself and the other holding Greg’s arse cheek, squeezing and kneading. “No one is going to come looking for us. Relax.”
The first thrust in is breathtakingly uncomfortable. Greg grunts, shifts his feet and his arms, getting his elbows up under himself to hold him up, to help him keep balance and push back, lean into the invasion even as his body instinctively tries to move away. “Jesus,” he breathes, harsh in the quiet of the room.
Mycroft squeezes him at the hip, reassuring, and rocks back out before easing in again, deeper this time. “Relax.”
“Yeah, sure,” Greg mutters. “Switch places with me, and we’ll see if you relax so easy.”
Mycroft amuses himself by rucking Greg’s shirt up to his armpits, smoothing his palms down the bared skin of Greg’s back, soft and gentle, before delivering light, twin smacks to both arsecheeks and rocking steadily in and out, a shallow rhythm that jostles Greg enough that the felt is scratching under his arms as they lose their purchase.
Greg breathes with the motion, panting with it, trying to catch up, to acclimate and relax like he’s been told. He’s getting there. The pleasure is stirring up, mixing with the edge of naughtiness that had him getting hard before Mycroft had really even touched him.
Just as Greg’s thinking he’d like to ask Mycroft to do him deeper, maybe say some provoking things to get this show on the road, Mycroft speaks.
“What would you do if he walked in?”
Greg laughs, breathless, into his folded arms, then pushes up onto his elbows, moving himself back on Mycroft’s cock, taking matters into his own hands a bit.
“Do you really not call him anything else?”
“Why should I?” Greg wriggles his hips. “Most of the time it’s Oxford Asshole Number Three, but after all this I’ve downgraded him.”
Mycroft stops Greg’s clumsy attempts at meeting his thrusts, which have gone unpredictable and rhythmless (on purpose, Greg’s sure), by gripping him at the shoulder and murmuring, “Stop that.”
“Then fuck me, and I won’t have to do it myself.”
Mycroft scoffs, but it works a little. He moves in a way that Greg knows from experience means he’s watching where he’s disappearing into Greg’s body, getting off on the visuals more than the sensations. But he uses his hand on Greg’s shoulder to guide him, to wordlessly instruct him to shift this far back and then this far forward, in time with him, and it’s good. The angle’s good. It doesn't hurt and the pressure’s good. Greg sighs, happy, and almost willing to forget they’re practically in public. He knows Mycroft could do this all night. Slow and steady and almost idle.
“What do you want me to say?”
Mycroft’s fingers squeeze Greg’s trapezius then travel down, slip under his shoved-up shirt, and circle his nipple before pinching a little. “What comes to mind? You’re rather stuck in this position, don’t you think? No way to move unless I move. No way to hide what we’re doing. So?”
Greg whines when Mycroft pinches him again, and shoves his arse back without meaning to. “Mmmph - yeah. Harder.”
“You expect me to believe you wouldn’t jump off me if that door opened?” Greg scrubs a hand over his forehead and makes a frustrated noise in his throat. “Be serious. And stop teasing. Now is not the time.”
“I believe it to be the perfect time,” Mycroft informs him. “And no, I wouldn’t. Jump off of you, that is. I think I would finish.”
“Sure.” Greg goes along with it. “What, maintain eye contact to assert dominance or whatever?”
“No,” Mycroft murmurs, and leans forward, mouth near Greg’s ear as his hips roll, driving deep but not hard enough, not enough- enough. “Perhaps I would pretend not to have seen the door open. He would freeze. He would panic. He wouldn’t know that I know he is there.”
“Maybe his homophobia is self-hatred and he’d get off on watching us.”
Mycroft makes a dismissive, disappointed sound.
Greg laughs. “You’d rather he be horrified?”
Mycroft straightens his spine again and then finally puts his back into it. The open zip of his trousers, still managing to stay somewhere just above his knees, scratches fleetingly against the back of Greg’s legs every so often. Then he thinks they must’ve slipped down, because all he can feel is Mycroft’s skin, warm and slightly rough with the sparse hair that sprinkles his legs. Mycroft shoves in three, four times, and then grinds, does it again.
“God, that’s good,” Greg mutters, head hanging down between his shoulders. “Come on, fill me u—”
“Yes, yes,” Mycroft pants impatiently, interrupting Greg’s stream of hopeful encouragement. “Stop rushing me.”
Greg can only laugh helplessly down at Lord Dickhead’s fancy new felt.
“I like that he would be appalled. Disgusted.”
Mycroft uses Greg’s bunched shirt almost like a harness, hand twisting in it and using it to pull him up off the pool table, an arm going round his chest and yanking him back. “If I’m to be hated and thought depraved, well…”
“Give the people what they want,” Greg agrees breathlessly as Mycroft’s hand finally touches his cock, the first firm strip of his grip causing him to clench up.
Mycroft grunts in his ear. “What they expect, anyway. This is what he thinks we’re like. Filthy. Shameless. Rough and ungentle.”
“Well—” Greg would like to point out that that is what they’re like right now, but he can barely keep a thought in his head with Mycroft knocking him half off his feet with every thrust.
“He doesn't know that if I had more time I could make you beg. I could make you come three times all over his precious table.”
“Yeah—” Greg would like to agree. Would like to ask for that, because why shouldn’t he? He’d like to say something about how they’re so very many things together, but—
“I could have you screaming my name and telling me how desperately you love me. I could lick you clean—”
Greg’s brain is taking on a distinctly static-y sort of feeling. “What in fuck are you talking abou— ah!”
Mycroft shoves him forward again, and Greg catches himself on his hands before he can slam into the edge of the pool table. Mycroft fucks him so hard and so fast that Greg can only hold on, come along for the ride, eyes rolling back a little with every punishing shove against his prostate.
“You’re—” he gasps. “So—” Mycroft’s skin slaps against his. “Fucking—”
“So fucking what,” Mycroft demands, posh vowels transforming the clumsy words into a stiletto blade that sinks in between Greg’s vertebrae, makes his spinal cord go liquid and hot, sure he’ll come if Mycroft would just move his hand.
“Weird!” Greg laughs and moans. “So weird in bed, Jesus Christ, I love it— oh, ff-”
Mycroft goes silent when he comes. Not all the time, but sometimes. This time he does, probably because while he might be a weird, vindictive exhibitionist (years together, and Greg learns something new all the time) he isn’t actually reckless. Now is certainly not the moment for shouting through an orgasm.
“Oh, good for you,” Greg sighs, feeling the twitch and spasm rocking through his own body. “Lovely.”
“Give me a—”
“A second, yeah.” Greg’s forehead rocks back and forth on the felt. Is he terribly sweaty? Is he going to leave a mark here? If Mycroft had only made him come too, it would’ve dripped down the shining oak of the table, maybe pooled in the ball return.
Greg shivers at the mental image. Turns out he’s a weird, vindictive exhibitionist too. He grins to himself.
Mycroft pulls out. “Up,” he says. “Turn around.”
Greg does it, swallowing his groan as his back protests the treatment it’s been receiving. Mycroft wastes no time. He sinks to the floor and shoves Greg’s hips back, forcing him to press bare-arsed against the side of the pool table, before swallowing his cock down with his eyes closed under his sweaty, unkempt fringe.
Greg holds himself up with one hand and sweeps the hair off of Mycroft’s hot forehead with the other.
“This is good,” he murmurs. “You look so good.”
And he does. Trousers and pants around his ankles, braces splayed on either side of his folded legs, forgotten and half-undone. Mussed hair and shirt in disarray, cock softening against his thigh. And his lips stretched around Greg as his eyes snap open, sharp on Greg’s face.
Greg tries not to squeeze his eyes shut as Mycroft sucks him ruthlessly, pulling out all the stops, doing all the things at once. But he can’t not shut his eyes, block everything out but the exquisite heat of it, as he feels himself teetering close to the edge. Mycroft takes him deep and swallows around him and that’s it.
“Oh, fuck.” Greg curls over him with a stifled moan that comes out a little high pitched.
Mycroft pulls back, off, strokes him through, licks over the head like Greg loves, and Greg opens his eyes in time to watch Mycroft paint his own tongue with Greg’s come, mouth open and filthy.
“Fuck,” Greg breathes again. “Look at that.”
Mycroft smiles then swallows, pressing his closed lips to Greg’s still-twitching shaft in a chaste kiss.
Greg sinks back into his body bit by bit, and registers the sensation of the slow slide of come down his thigh. He tips his hips away from the table. He doesn't actually fancy the idea of having to wipe this stupid thing clean.
“I’m a fucking mess,” he laughs, watching Mycroft tug his pajama bottoms up for him. “These’re gonna be ruined. You couldn’t have carried a condom with that lube?”
“No,” Mycroft replies pointedly. “Rather ruins the point of this exercise, darling.”
Greg snorts. “Come up here. Think we could sneak out for a smoke?”
“You reek of sex.” Mycroft rises, bringing his trousers with him. He goes about setting himself to rights.
“And you don’t?”
Mycroft tilts his head to the side in acknowledgment, then sweeps a hand through his wrecked hair. Greg grins at him: yeah, that too.
“All the more reason to go directly upstairs, don’t you think?”
Greg lifts an eyebrow at him. “Come on, where’s your sense of adventure?”
Mycroft steps close to him again and ducks his head for a kiss that Greg is more than happy to give him. Mycroft opens his mouth to speak, not quite making eye contact.
“It was good,” Greg says quickly. “I loved that, you absolute animal. Don’t start worrying.”
“Good,” says Mycroft, simple and a little relieved. “That’s good.”
“Working through some shit this weekend, are we? Old boarding school feelings?”
Mycroft rolls his eyes and backs away, tugging Greg with him by the hips. “My cigarettes are in my jacket pocket.”
Greg kisses him once, hard and enthusiastic, before going for the jacket, ignoring and also loving the way he feels slick and dirty and messy with every move, the way his flannel pants stick to him in odd and suggestive places.
The next day they pack and load Greg’s car with their things, and Mycroft says generic goodbyes to their host.
Thank God Alicia and Patrick are also hitting the road, Patrick’s little Citroen parked right next to Greg’s.
“Never a-fucking-gain,” Patrick says out of the corner of his mouth, he and Greg loitering between the cars while Alicia and Mycroft say goodbye with their worst, most pasted-on smiles.
“Eh, I had fun,” Greg says, shaking a cigarette out of his pack and then offering it to Patrick, who waves it off.
“Oh,” Patrick groans as Greg’s lighting up. “Oh, no, you didn’t. Where?”
Greg takes a long first drag. “You don’t want to know the details, why are you asking?”
“Because I have blue bollocks!” Patrick remembers to lower his voice halfway through the sentence. “That bloody black dress she wore to dinner and nothing, because that utter tit Richard put us in a bedroom with a boar’s head on the wall. A boar’s head, Greg.”
Greg snickered around his cigarette. “Sorry, mate.”
Patrick sighs. “It’s fine. She’ll need winding down when we get back to the city. I’m in for it.”
Greg tries not to look terrified at the prospect of Alicia Smallwood needing “winding down” of a sexual nature. The woman is… formidable. He’s honestly surprised Patrick doesn't walk with a limp at all times. There’s now way she’s not— Okay, bringing his attention back to reality, Greg gives himself a shake.
“Look,” he says, ramping up to retaliation for that little mental detour. “I hope we never come back here. But.” Greg pretends to contemplate the glowing end of his cigarette. “Just FYI, the billiards room has a certain… ambience.”
Patrick’s guffaw echoes around the stupid fancy circular driveway, and Mycroft and Alicia are headed their way.
“See ya, mate,” Greg says, giving Patrick the blokey sort of arm-smack that is de rigueur, and meets Mycroft on the other side of their car. “Good?”
“Good enough,” Mycroft sighs, but he smiles.
Greg spots Lord Fuckface over by the ugly front doors of his ugly too-large house. “Can I do something?”
Mycroft’s eyes widen and then narrow, sparkling. “If it will make you happy.”
Greg doesn't spare a look before he reaches up to tug Mycroft the little bit of extra height down into a kiss. He telegraphs it all with his hands from there. Clings to his lapels. Lets himself arch back a little, makes himself look smaller, like Mycroft’s the one holding him, taking the kiss. After a moment, Mycroft actually does.
When they break apart, Greg grins. “Fuck him,” he says. “Take me home, please.”
Mycroft says nothing. But he does kiss Greg one more time, and it’s in the softness of his lower lip and the unobtrusive seeking of permission, the gentleness. Greg melts into it the way he knows he’ll melt into the mattress later.
“With pleasure,” Mycroft murmurs, and pushes Greg toward the car.
“So, darling, pray tell,” Mycroft asks about a mile down the road. “Who exactly are Oxford Arseholes Numbers One and Two?”