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Mycroft frowned unhappily at himself in the mirror, scrutinising the slight roundness that his lower belly had seemed to develop without him noticing. When did this happen? He thought worriedly, as he prodded the soft area around his middle. No, no, no, this won't do at all, not at all. He scanned over the rest of his body too, reaching up to pinch the freckled skin of his neck between his fingers. And yes, yes he could see more ribs the other week, and his hips were certainly more prominent before...
Try as he might, Mycroft could not stop the onslaught of images that flashed through his mind, memories of when he was not the slender, lithe man he is today, and his senses were bombarded with the sounds of Sherlock's cruel taunts, his parents' tuts of disapproval and their condescending glares as he grew out of yet another pair of trousers, only wishing that, 'The boy were as intelligent with his diet as he is with his academia.'
He turned away from himself in no small of amount of disgust, walking across the room to his wardrobe, and picking out the suit that would best conceal his new...shape.
Of course, Mycroft didn't want to blame Gregory for the gain in his weight, but it was only since he began dating the Detective Inspector that he had started slacking in his self-control. The man was always going on about how Mycroft was, 'Thin enough already,' and, 'Didn't need to lose weight.' And the worst one of all, 'You're perfect just the way you are.'
It appears that these kinds of sentimental endearments have only caused me to forget myself. He thought coldly, as he tugged down his waistcoat to cover his stomach fully. He then knotted his tie around the collar of his starched white shirt, tightening it a little more severely than was necessary.
Putting on his suit jacket, Mycroft headed into the kitchen, opening a cupboard to retrieve a cup and tea bag. He put the kettle on, and leaned back against the pristine wooden surface, trying to will away the migraine that was threatening its approach. He didn't have time for proper tea in the mornings, early as they were, and so had to settle for the bagged type, seriously regretting his career choice when he felt like this.
What is Gregory going to think? Mycroft said to himself, the line between his brows deepening as he frowned more intensely. Nobody wants a fat lover. He won't want me anymore, not when he sees me like this. No, Gregory said that he loves me...Well, he won't now, will he? Oh lord what have I done? His mind whirred with the constant cycle of hateful thoughts, each one more vicious and resentful than the next, until Mycroft gripped his mug just too tightly, and the handle snapped, sending the ceramic clattering to the floor, smashing into three sharp pieces.
Mycroft blinked at the sudden shock, and bent to pick up the shards of the shattered mug, not failing to notice the way his trouser button pressed harshly into his stomach.
He dropped the broken mug into the bin, and sighed heavily, rubbing his temples in anguish. The kettle finished boiling, but by that time the idea of consuming anything, tea or otherwise, was entirely unappealing.
Mycroft left the house, umbrella in hand, and set off for a no doubt exhausting day, fully prepared to take any self-criticisms his mind decided to throw at him.
He stepped out of the sleek black car, and entered the large building that he hoped would serve to calm his fears and clear his head. How very wrong he was.
Mycroft's back was ramrod straight, his eyes focused solely in front of him as he made his way swiftly to his office.
The Diogenes? What on Earth was I thinking coming here? Oh yes, my thoughts will most certainly stop revolving around my weight when I'm surrounded by cake! Stupid, stupid man. You stupid, fat man. Sherlock's right you know, you are an absolute idiot. An absolute idiot who can't even control what he puts in his bloody mouth.
Mycroft's destructive internal monologue only ceased when he closed the door to his office, and a deafening silence permeated the usually comforting room.
He sat down at his desk, only to stand right back up with a growl as he noticed the delicate cup of tea, and rich slice of cake waiting for him alongside the annoyingly large stack of paperwork. So, yes, he may be partial to the odd piece of cake with his tea in the mornings, but only when he was at the club, and only since he had been feeling better for Gregory's comments.
What have I been doing to myself? I have been...poisoning my body with this, this food. And I can't even trust myself not to eat it! Not even after all the trouble it has caused me. Pathetic.
Mycroft pushed the plate to the far corner of his desk and sat back down in the leather chair, trying to focus on his work. He dragged the papers towards him, separating the different documents into piles according to their importance and urgency. Briskly reaching for the document labelled 'Highest Priority' in a bright red stamp, his hand knocked the fork resting on the china plate, the loud chinking sound reverberating around the large room. Mycroft withdrew his hand sharply, staring venomously at the source of his skittishness.
Stop it. You're being ridiculous. Surely you, a man who's job it is to manipulate world leaders, can resist a piece of cake! Just ignore it. Let's see if you can contain yourself for the mere few hours it will take you to finish this paperwork, hm?
Mycroft shook his head minutely, and focused once again on the task at hand. He managed to get through nearly half of the daunting stack, before a small, but all too familiar voice began making itself known in Mycroft's head.
I bet you will, you know; you'll eat it. I really wouldn't be surprised. Sherlock's scathing baritone began nastily. You never could stop yourself, even as a teenager, when your mind was...fresher, than it is now. Though, you always did manage to even out the bingeing urges, didn't you? Bent double over the sink, fingers shoved down your throat; what a sight to walk in on! I still can't believe you didn't think to lock the bathroom door. So desperate to rid your body of the thousand-odd calories you'd greedily consumed-
"STOP!" Mycroft yelled, slamming his clenched fist down on the desk. "Stop." He repeated, his voice cracking, sounding more like a whimper than a command, his knuckles turned white from the strain. He slowly uncurled his trembling fist, noticing that his whole body was trembling with it, shaking with suppressed emotion. Silent tears began to trickle down his face, dripping onto the desk, leaving wet tracks that marred his usually stoic, void-of-emotion features.
Mycroft arrived home to find Greg laying stretched out on his sofa, wearing only his trousers. In that moment, he positively hated how his lover was so comfortable in his own skin.
Greg turned his head at Mycroft's return, grinning up at him amiably. "Alright love? Sherlock was such a pain today, you wouldn't believe it." He said, getting up to greet him.
"I'm sure I would." He replied stiffly, hanging his umbrella on the stand.
Greg walked up behind him, and wrapped his arms around Mycroft's waist. "Hey, what's the matter? Tough day?" He asked, kissing his neck softly.
Mycroft hissed and wriggled out of his embrace, heading towards the kitchen to get a drink. The water and tea bag from that morning were still there, only serving to remind Mycroft of his earlier thoughts, and once again the need to eat or drink was quelled.
Greg looked on in concern, and went to comfort his clearly distressed lover. "Myc, tell me what's wrong. Have you eaten? I can make you something if you want?" He offered.
"I'm not hungry, Gregory." Mycroft said, refusing to look him in his imploring eyes, for fear that he may break down again.
"C'mon, I'll cook you up an omelette, you said you like those." Greg insisted, trying to reach over Mycroft to open the cupboard.
"I said I'm not hungry, Gregory!" Mycroft snapped, pushing past him and heading into their bedroom. Greg was left standing alone, feeling confused, and wondering what on Earth he had done to upset his mercurial lover.
Mycroft folded his clothes neatly as he removed them, placing them on top of the toilet seat as he went. There was no way he was changing in their bedroom; Gregory could easily walk in and see him. He slid open the shower door and twisted the tap, not bothering to check the temperature when he stepped under the heavy spray. The water was chilly, and he shivered slightly, but didn't adjust the heat, instead forcing his body to get used to the cold shower. Mycroft tipped his head back, allowing the water to flow over his face and run down the front of his body.
I shouldn't have shouted at him. He was only trying to be helpful, and look what I've gone and done. Gregory definitely won't want me now. He thought, as he snapped open the lid of his shampoo, squeezing some into his palm. Mycroft closed his eyes as he massaged the shampoo into his auburn hair, not noticing the bathroom door opening over the sound of the water beating against the tiled walls.
Greg closed the door gently, trying not to catch the other man's attention as he quietly and carefully stripped of his trousers and underwear. He stepped cautiously over to the shower, where Mycroft, thankfully, still had his eyes firmly shut.
Mycroft turned and wiped the water from his face when the door slid open, blinking in horror as he saw Greg climbing into the shower with him. Greg only grinned cheekily, and shook his head to let the water reach all of his scruffy hair.
"Bit nippy, isn't it?" He asked cheerfully, as he tipped his head down under the spray of water, running his hands through his hair. He glanced up at Mycroft through his lashes, smiling mischievously, and silently hoping that he hadn't assumed too much.
Mycroft finally found his voice, after a few seconds of silent staring at the bold man who had decided to join him. "What on Earth are doing!?" He asked incredulously, almost hysterically even, as he tried in vain to hide his body.
Greg reached for the soap, and began to run it over his chest as he spoke. "Having a shower with my boyfriend- what are you doing?" He asked in return, as he noticed Mycroft's efforts to cover himself.
"I, I'm..." Mycroft began, only to be silenced when Greg stepped closer to him, held his arms in each strong hand, and pulled them gently away from his body.
"What's all this, eh? You don't need to hide from me." He said sincerely, running his hands down Mycroft's sides, coming to rest at his hips.
Mycroft was placated for a moment, until he realised exactly where Gregory had placed his wandering hands. "Please remove your hands from my person." He said, his tone clearly strained. When Greg did not do so immediately, Mycroft grabbed his wrists in a vice-like grip, and yanked them from his waist.
"Mycroft? What's wrong? What have I done?" Greg asked, the concern and hurt written all over his features.
"Nothing." Mycroft snarled in reply, pushing past him to escape the too-close, confined space of the shower.
He snatched his white towelling robe from where it was hung on the bathroom door, and hastily wrapped it around himself, before heading back into the bedroom.
Greg shut of the shower immedietly, drying his body as quickly as he could, and pulled on his dressing gown. He chased Mycroft into the bedroom, dripping water as he went.
"I would appreciate being left alone, Gregory." Mycroft said, in a monotone that Greg new all too well. It was the voice that Mycroft reverted to when showing no emotion; when shutting him out.
"No." Greg replied resolutely, determined not to be shut out without any idea why. "I want to know what's wrong, Mycroft."
Said man turned away from him slightly, averting his gaze to the floor. When he looked back up his face was blank, completely wiped of any emotion.
"No, no. Don't do that to me, not now." Greg said, gesturing with his hands. "I care about you, Mycroft, and I deserve to know why you won't let me so much as touch you tonight!"
Mycroft stared for a long while, and Greg could practically see the cogs turining at a frantic pace in his mind. He waited patiently for what seemed like forever, until Mycroft opened his mouth and rasped out, "Please don't leave me."
Greg stared in disbelief at the enigmatic man stood before him, who usually exuded confidence through his every move, now reduced to a begging, broken mess, and he was intent on finding out why.
"Leave you? What on Earth's made you think I will ever leave you?" Greg asked, trying to fathom how he had come to such a ridiculous conclusion.
"You won't love me anymore. Not now. You won't want me." Mycroft began to ramble, seeming to have zoned out and drifted into his own thoughts.
Greg crossed the room and wrapped his arms around Mycroft, embracing him tightly until he relaxed and leaned against Greg's strong body. "I will always want you, Mycroft. And you'd better believe me when I say that I'm not going anywhere." He kissed him softly on his cheek, and pulled back to gaze lovingly at the taller man, when he noticed Mycroft's eyes were glistening with unshed tears. "Woah, woah, Myc, what's wrong?"
Mycroft's pale eyes flickered across Greg's face, searching for any signs of insincerity, and, unsurprisingly, finding none. "But I...I'm fat, and you shouldn't want me anymore because I'm not how I should be."
"...fat? You can't be serious?" Greg laughed, then swallowed thickly when he realised that yes, he was being deadly serious. "This is not the body of a fat man, Myc." He said, slipping his hands into Mycroft's robe and running them across his ribs. "If anyone's carrying any extra pounds here, it's me, so you can stop worrying right now." He leaned up and pressed his lips encouragingly to Mycroft's, smiling when he began to return it tentatively.
Greg cupped his hands at the back of Mycroft's neck, and slid them across his shoulders to slip his robe from his body. "Look at you..." He said, his voice just a shade deeper and rougher than usual. "You're all...sharp shoulder blades, and..." He placed an open mouthed kiss on the man's pale, freckled neck. "...pointy elbows and knees, and..." He travelled further down his body, moving to suck at Mycroft's collarbone. "...oh, endless legs." He groaned, imagining said legs wrapped around his waist. "You, Mycroft Holmes, are definitely not fat, far from it in fact, and I would still love you even if you were."
Mycroft pulled back suddenly, his head hung low, and Greg's heart broke to see him so ashamed. "You say that now, but you could never love me the way I was. I was...I was hideous." He said, quietly, but with a sickeningly wry tone to his voice.
"You could never be hideous." Greg insisted, trying in earnest to get through to the stubborn man. "When are you going to understand that you are beautiful?" He asked, tracing soothing circles into the back of Mycroft's neck as he spoke.
Mycroft remained silent for at least a minute, just trying to process the words that were so lovingly conveyed to him. "You are the beautiful one, Gregory. You are strong and handsome and have eyes like deep pools of dark chocolate, with your perfect teeth and wonderful, brilliant hair, and-"
"Look," Greg said, cutting him off, "as much as I'm enjoying all this flattery, do you actually have a point to it at all?"
"Yes." Mycroft snapped, before taking a deep breath and continuing. "You are...you, and I am me. And I can't comprehend how somebody as beautiful, both in their physical and mental being, could ever choose to love somebody like myself."
"Somebody like you? What's that supposed to mean?" Greg asked, not entirely sure that he wanted to find out.
"Somebody like me, Gregory! A too-tall, pale, freckled, strange, and cold man like me!" He shouted, his voice wavering at the raw emotion that threatened to become too much.
"And yet here I am." Greg assured, taking Mycroft's hands in his own. "So you have your quirks, so what? I'm not exactly perfect either you know. Sometimes I wonder why such an intelligent, stunning man like yourself has settled for a bit of rough like me, when you could have any fancy rich git you wanted."
"And for the record, your freckles are sexy as hell." He added, when Mycroft didn't reply.
Greg considered it a triumph and a step forward when Mycroft answered with an almost sulky, "You can't possibly find them attractive, they're repulsive."
Greg grinned widely, stepping closer to press kisses to his lover's prettily patterned shoulders. "They're wonderful, and one day I'm going to count every single one of them, and there are so very many that I'll probably lose count, so then I'll have to start all over again. Maybe I'll play dot-to-dot with my tongue." He emphasised his point by licking a small stripe across the base of Mycroft's neck, not failing to notice the hitch in his breath as he did so. "You fascinate me, Mycroft Holmes, from your maddening brain to your too damn hot for words body, so I suppose, if you won't let me tell you how I feel, I'll just have to show you. God that sounded so cliché." He giggled as an afterthought.
"And I suppose that I...shan't be opposed to that idea." Mycroft admitted, as he brought his arms timidly around Greg's body. "But...would it be alright if we...just for tonight I mean, if we could just..."
"Lay here? Of course we can, love." Mycroft was happily surprised that Greg had realised what he was asking. "Whatever you need."
"There you go. I've got you." Greg assured Mycroft smoothly into his ear, as he guided them both to lay down on the bed. "And look, you're the perfect height." He mused quietly when he positioned their bodies to fit snugly and comfortably together, resting his head gently on Mycroft's chest, his arm wrapped protectively around the younger man's waist. Mycroft let out a contented sigh, and Greg knew that this is where he wanted to be, in this man's arms, and it wouldn't matter what form their bodies may take, because they belonged together, and no amount of insecurities were ever going to change that.