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Greg and Mycroft were arguing. Again. This time over a single used glass that hadn’t been immediately placed in the dishwasher.
“If you won’t say it, I will,” Mycroft said, meeting Greg’s eyes without blinking. “We should break up.”
Greg rolled his eyes. “Because of one dirty glass?”
“It’s not just the dishes.”
“I know, I know. I am trying to be less messy, but I can’t compete with your OCD, love. It’s never going to be enough for you.”
“If this is you putting in an effort,”
“You should try as well,” Greg interrupted, firmer now. “You promised you’d go to therapy.”
“I’m extremely busy, as you’re well aware.”
“And I’m not?” Greg snapped. “Still, I manage to send a bloody text when I’m running late. Unlike someone! You have no idea how many nights I spent worrying!”
Mycroft’s jaw tightened. “Like you’re so perfect.”
“I never claimed I was,” Greg did his best to stay calm. “I leave my socks on the floor, I forget to close the cupboards, I talk too loud, I snore, I leave the tv on and sometimes I drink milk straight from the carton. I know I’m a pain in the arse to live with. But I’m trying. I’m trying because that’s what you do when you care about someone.”
“It would be better—healthier—for you to walk away.”
Greg stepped closer. “Maybe. But I don’t want easy. I want you. And I think we owe it to ourselves to at least try before giving up.”
Mycroft’s gaze drifted to the floor. “Why prolong the inevitable?”
Greg’s voice softened. “How many times were you dumped just because it got hard?”
“I told you,” Mycroft muttered, “I’m not easy.”
“Nor am I.”
Mycroft was silent for a while.
Then, almost too quiet to hear, “All my relationships ended a week after moving in together. Some left without a word, some with insults. I suppose they were right. I’m difficult. I have routines, habits that are hard to break. But I do believe… with time, I could learn how to live with someone.”
Greg reached out, touched his arm gently. “Then let’s start with that. I don’t expect you to change overnight,” Greg said, voice low. “Just please don’t prepare for the end every time we argue.”
To Greg’s surprise, Mycroft sank down onto the arm of the sofa. He looked tired, not the usual long-day-at-the-office tired.
“I’ve never lived with anyone who didn’t end up resenting me,” Mycroft said. “They all said I was cold, controlling, exhausting to be around.”
Greg crouched in front of him, resting his hands on Mycroft’s knees. “You are exhausting,” he said gently. “So am I. I mean, have you seen how many mugs I leave around the flat?”
Mycroft made a soft sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff.
“But I don’t resent you,” Greg continued. “I love you. And I’d rather argue with you over a glass on the coffee table than go back to coming home to an empty flat.”
Mycroft hesitantly reached out, Greg laced their fingers. “I don’t want to lose you,” he said quietly.
Greg stood, tugging gently until Mycroft followed. He wrapped his arms around him, his chin rested on Greg’s shoulder.
Finally, Greg murmured, “I’ll try to remember the dishwasher.”
Mycroft’s voice was muffled. “I’ll make an appointment with my therapist.”
Greg smiled. “Deal.”