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The Yard’s New Years’ Eve party was not to be missed, especially when you were hoping for promotion, so Greg attended as usual. The evening slid away without him noticing and all of sudden, it was time.
Glancing around, he felt suddenly removed from the smiling faces. How was everyone enjoying this so much? The music so loud you had to shout, and the stuffy bar smelling of beer and sweat and warm bodies too close together. Greg blinked, pushing down the wave of loneliness that threatened to turn him from a quietly reflective figure to a sad and bitter one. It was nice people were enjoying their evening, he reminded himself. It wasn’t like they were able to do it all that often.
‘One minute to midnight!’
The music abruptly stopped and a voice pitched high with excitement shouted over the PA system. People were chattering, checking watches and finding people, teasing each other about who they would kiss, and Greg felt himself shrinking away from it all. It was morbid, the way he couldn’t help his eyes dragging back, fascinated like an onlooker at a murder scene.
With a sudden decision, Greg downed the rest of his ginger beer and stood up. He’d just bring people down if he was here, and honestly, he might as well go home if he was going to be a grumpy bugger.
‘Oh my God!’
The noise dipped, the hush of a group universally shocked before exploding into applause. Greg turned back, unable to resist his curiosity, and immediately wished he hadn’t. A small circle formed around a couple kissing in the middle, light flashing off a newly placed engagement ring as it was held up to the crowd in an unmistakable gesture of triumph.
Greg’s eyes lingered for a moment, a rush of memories and emotions almost overwhelming him. He blinked and moved his eyes from the delirious couple, hoping it would allow him to turn the rest of his body and continue out of the party and off home.
It took several seconds before Greg recognised the face on which his eyes landed. The breath caught in his throat and Greg knew his face showed every bit of jumbled emotion, but he couldn’t think enough to try and hide it. Mycroft shouldn’t be at this party, and yet he was standing by the door, eyes locked on Greg’s. It was impossible to read more than surprise on his face; Greg was sure his own expression was being studied, but Mycroft’s expression did not give away more. By the time Greg inhaled again, lights were flashing and glitter seemed to be falling from the ceiling amid balloons. They fell, breaking his gaze with Mycroft, and Greg’s legs acted of their own accord.
The only exit was next to Mycroft, and Greg’s heart thudded as he silently begged Mycroft not to stop him. He just needed to get out of here, away from the overwhelming atmosphere and somewhere he could sort out what was happening inside him. He made it to the landing without pause and headed down the stairs. Half of him – or perhaps more – wanted Mycroft to follow, but when Greg reached the street he couldn’t hold back a sigh of relief. After the cacophony upstairs, it took a moment for him to register any sound over the ringing in his ears. Cars rolling by, distant voices, the dull thud of music probably from upstairs – though sudden, it was still better.
Without thinking, Greg crossed the road, stepping onto a path that led into the small, dark garden he’d crossed on the way to the party. Cold air was sharp in his nose and he drew it in, glad for the sensation that teetered on the edge of pain. If it meant he was cold, all the better for it. Against his skin it had the same effect as the washcloths his mother used to press against a feverish forehead. Momentary relief from the heat that threatened to engulf him, without curing the cause of his distress.
Something shivered across the back of his neck and impulsively, Greg stepped behind a large tree before turning around. He knew he was being watched, and sure enough, the figure across the road had just reached the curb. Greg held his breath, though he was fairly sure the darkness here was enough to hide him. Mycroft couldn’t possibly know he was in here. That thought was supposed to bolster him, but instead it broadened the chasm of loneliness he’d been trying to ignore lately.
On impulse, Greg stepped out onto the path. He was still in the garden, and he made no move to speak or hail Mycroft. The truth was Greg had no idea what he wanted to happen, only that he wanted something to happen, and it seemed more likely if Mycroft knew he was here in the garden. He knew Mycroft well enough to know when he’d been spotted, and even if he’d wanted it to, Greg’s dry mouth would have yielded no sound.
Turning, Greg walked into the garden. It was still a relief, the dark and the cool, the wide-open spaces free from close voices and music. The air bore a promise of snow and something of nature, perhaps the promise of life slumbering through these cold weeks and months, surviving quietly. His ears were still ringing, though there would be precious little he'd hear in here. The path was sealed, and with no amenities save a park bench somewhere, it was hardly a place for people to congregate in the dark.
As he walked, Greg realised the colder spots on his face were snow. Approaching a lamppost, he slowed, watching as tiny snowflakes swirled in the slight breeze. It was like a dance, he thought dimly, the light as crisp and cool as the frozen air. His breath was visible here too, and for a moment he was transfixed by the simple beauty of this. Air and water, coming together in unexpected ways, he mused. Opposites, but moving together.
‘Gregory.’
Greg stilled. Of course, he’d practically invited Mycroft in here. Now he wasn’t half panicking, he remembered the awkward exchange of looks in the party and winced. Surely, this would be a very uncomfortable conversation as he tried to salvage both his pride and whatever version of their companionship would survive Mycroft’s realisation of Greg’s feelings.
‘Hi,’ Greg said. He didn’t turn; his head was still tilted as he watched the snowflakes in the lamplight. Mycroft’s voice came from behind him, and it was a shock when he appeared beside Greg on the path.
‘You left rather abruptly,’ Mycroft said quietly.
Greg glanced over but Mycroft was watching the snow. ‘I did,’ Greg said. ‘I didn’t realise you would follow.’
It took a long time for Mycroft to answer. The condensation from Greg’s breath had dissipated long before Mycroft’s appeared.
‘I wished to speak with you, if it was possible.’
Greg waited. Surely Mycroft could ask whatever he wanted now, if he still wanted to talk to Greg. They stood for a long while until Greg realised Mycroft was waiting for permission.
‘Okay,’ Greg said. ‘What did you want to talk about?’
‘I have a question, if you would consider answering it?’
‘Okay,’ Greg said cautiously.
‘This is not the question with which I arrived,’ Mycroft said. ‘However… would you tell me why you left the party so abruptly?’
‘It was very loud,’ Greg said. It was one angle of the truth. He wasn’t prepared to explain it all. It wasn’t even all clear to him, not yet.
‘Is that the only reason?’
Greg considered. A snowflake skittered across his vision, and he followed it with his eyes, not daring to turn his head. ‘No,’ he admitted. He sought another piece that wouldn’t take too much explanation. ‘It was midnight.’
‘An early celebration of the new year?’
‘Yeah,’ Greg said. ‘Too many of us work on the actual night, so we do it early.’
Mycroft didn’t answer. Greg wondered if the conversation had moved far enough away from Mycroft’s question, or if Mycroft was still waiting for more.
‘What question did you want to ask me?’ Greg said. He turned without thinking, and perhaps he took Mycroft by surprise because the eyes that met his were wider than usual. Mycroft was closer than Greg had anticipated, and he steeled himself not to step backwards.
‘I… do not know, in truth,’ Mycroft said quietly.
Greg frowned. ‘You came to ask me a question but you don’t know what the question was.’
‘Last night when we dined together,’ Mycroft said, ‘you did not seem yourself.’
‘I wasn’t,’ Greg replied without thinking. He carefully picked another morsel of truth. ‘I didn’t really want to come to the party.’
‘You asked me to attend with you,’ Mycroft said. ‘Earlier this week.’
‘I did,’ Greg replied. ‘You said you were busy.’
Mycroft studied him for a long moment. ‘You did not appear upset or surprised at my response.’
‘I wasn’t,’ Greg said honestly. In an ideal world, Mycroft would have turned down the party idea but suggested something else, and they would have…
‘I have observed a change in your demeanour,’ Mycroft said quietly. ‘Since the invitation.’
Greg raised his eyebrows. ‘You have?’ He’d tried to hide his disappointment, and thought he’d done a good job; Mycroft had watched him after their brief exchange, but other than a slightly more vigilant countenance, Mycroft hadn’t mentioned it. Until now.
‘I could not explain how,’ Mycroft said. ‘Except to say that perhaps you were quietly resigned to something. Subdued, preoccupied.’
‘Oh,’ Greg said. This time, he lied. ‘I don’t know why.’
If he’d had to describe how Mycroft would respond when he knew Greg was lying, Greg would have said ‘disappointed,’ or ‘chiding’, or even ‘gently mocking’, depending on the situation. But this was nothing like that.
Mycroft looked… sad.
‘I believe you do,’ Mycroft said quietly. ‘And I admit to a measure of embarrassment it took me so long to determine the reason.’
Greg’s heart started beating harder. ‘What?’
‘A chance comment from someone gave me the opportunity to view our recent conversations in a new light, and I came to the only logical conclusion,’ Mycroft said. He cleared his throat. ‘You have been flirting with me. And after I turned down the invitation to attend with you, you stopped.’
Greg’s mouth dropped open at the succinct – and correct – appraisal of his behaviour. ‘What?’
‘When you invited me to the party,’ Mycroft said, ‘it was the invitation of a date, rather than an attempt to be socially inclusive.'
Greg’s mouth was dry, and he forced himself to swallow. He had certainly not been flirting. Well, not the way he would in a bar, or with someone else. Okay he had, but carefully, quietly, hoping Mycroft’s observational skills would mean he wouldn’t have to been cheesy or sleezy or even too forward.
‘Tell me I am wrong,’ Mycroft said quietly.
The words hung in the air, fragile as the snowflakes lingering around them.
‘You said you didn’t want to come,’ Greg said. ‘So I dropped it.’
‘You ceased flirting,’ Mycroft said.
‘I wasn’t flirting, Jesus,’ Greg muttered. He could feel his ears growing warm as he flushed with the lie. ‘That wasn’t proper flirting, Mycroft.’
‘Was it not behaviour intended to indicate your interest?’
‘Interest in what?’ Greg countered. He could tell Mycroft had cut the sentence short, and he sure as hell knew why.
Mycroft did not look away, but Greg knew the measured beat was Mycroft debating whether or not to answer.
‘Interest in me,’ Mycroft said quietly.
‘That’s generally what flirting is, yeah,’ Greg said.
‘Why did you stop?’ Mycroft asked. He wasn’t buying that Greg hadn’t been flirting, that was clear.
‘You weren’t interested,’ Greg said.
Mycroft flicked one eyebrow in a gesture Greg knew well. It meant really, in a way that meant whatever you just said, you’re wrong.
‘You never responded,’ Greg said. ‘And when I invited you to the party, you said no.’ He shrugged, feeling the sting of rejection afresh. ‘I can take a hint, Mycroft. And I’m not going to push anything.’
‘I suspect you would not believe that I did not recognise your actions as flirting until this evening,’ Mycroft said.
Greg snorted. ‘Sure,’ he said.
‘I assure you,’ Mycroft replied. ‘I have been trying to determine why you appeared to withdraw.’ He swallowed. ‘I was concerned I might have inadvertently offended you.’
Greg nodded, but didn’t speak. What was the point? Mycroft seemed to be heading somewhere with what he was saying and Greg didn’t know what to reply, anyway.
‘I reviewed our recent interactions,’ Mycroft said. ‘You made a decision around October, correct?’
Greg nodded. There was no point trying to deny it now. ‘Your birthday,’ he said without explanation. He wouldn’t describe how he’d decided to give himself from Mycroft’s birthday until Christmas to see if anything would change.
‘You purchased me a copy of Ghost Cities,’ Mycroft said. ‘Along with that… interesting tie.’
‘Everyone should have a novelty tie,’ Greg said, unable to hold back his grin. It flashed, but faded fast. ‘And you said you wanted to read more novels by non-English authors. Expand your horizons.’ He hesitated. ‘What else did you notice?’
‘You listened,’ Mycroft said. ‘It is hard to be specific,’ Mycroft said quietly. ‘You were more… attentive. Your text messages changed from functional to sharing more of your personal life. You asked about my day.’
Greg shrugged. ‘Just being a good friend,’ he muttered defiantly.
‘You asked about my tailor,’ Mycroft said. ‘And for my opinion on your clothing as you attended first dates.’
‘Yeah,’ Greg muttered. He didn’t want to talk about his clumsy attempts to get Mycroft to think about him, or make him… not jealous, exactly, but to think of him as someone who liked to go on dates. Jesus, this was excruciating.
‘Anyway,’ Greg said, cutting across whatever other example of Greg’s schoolboy flirting techniques Mycroft was about to talk about, ‘the point is, you weren’t interested. Which is fine. We can just,’ he waved one hand. ‘Or whatever.’
He scrubbed one hand across his face. He wasn’t crying, but he felt frustration bubbling like fire in his belly, and the rough touch on his skin helped. Kind of.
‘Look, just text me or something. About Sherlock, if you want, or just… whatever,’ Greg said. ‘I’m going to go home.’
‘Please,’ Mycroft said, and it was so unexpected that Greg stopped and turned back. ‘I am prevaricating,’ Mycroft admitted. He drew a deep breath and looked down. Greg followed his eyes, and to his enormous surprise, watched Mycroft’s hand reach across the space between their bodies to curl around Greg’s fingers.
‘What are you doing?’ Greg said. His body was frozen, fingers resting in Mycroft’s. Was he the victim of a practical joke? Surely Mycroft would not toy with him, not over something like this?
‘I admit flirting is not a skill on which I might call,’ Mycroft said. ‘While I understand the mechanisms there have been few people to whom I would consider myself attracted.’
‘Okay,’ Greg said. His fingers were still cold, but he could feel the tremor in Mycroft’s hand. Nervous? ‘You don’t know how to flirt.’
Mycroft nodded. ‘I did not recognise your efforts,’ he said quietly. ‘Primarily because I would never have considered that you would deliberately direct such actions at me.’
Translating a nervous Mycroft was bloody hard, Greg thought as he waded through that sentence.
‘You didn’t think I would ever flirt with you,’ Greg checked.
‘Correct,’ Mycroft said quietly.
‘And the party?’
‘I admit it would not have been my first choice for a… a date,’ Mycroft said. ‘And I recalled you did not appear enthusiastic.’
‘I wasn’t,’ Greg said. He swallowed. ‘I’ve never liked the midnight thing at New Years’,’ he said. ‘If you don’t have someone, it’s bloody awkward.’
Mycroft nodded. His fingers were still curled around Greg’s, and Greg realised he hadn’t reciprocated at all. Carefully, he closed his fingers, watching Mycroft’s face. The surprise was clear as day, and to Greg’s astonishment a wave of other emotion followed it. Pleasure. Fear. Determination. Pleasure…
‘You left when you saw me,’ Mycroft said.
‘I left at midnight,’ Greg corrected. He swallowed. ‘Someone got engaged right in front of me.’
‘You wish to-’
‘No,’ Greg said quickly. ‘But it made me feel…’ he sighed and tightened his fingers without thinking. ‘I dunno. Lonely, maybe.’
‘In general, or specifically?’
‘Both,’ Greg admitted. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to come to the party.’
‘Yet you invited me,’ Mycroft said.
‘Yeah,’ Greg said.
‘You had a preferred outcome in mind?’
Greg shrugged. ‘It’s stupid,’ he said.
‘Please,’ Mycroft said.
‘I figured if you were interested you’d say no to the party but suggest something else,’ Greg said. He shrugged again. Stupid.
‘I apologise,’ Mycroft murmured.
‘It wasn’t really flirting,’ Greg said. He swallowed, not used to admitting so much about himself so baldly. ‘I didn’t want you to decide to stop seeing me at all.’
‘And your regular flirting?’
‘It’s easier at a bar or whatever,’ Greg said. ‘Lower stakes, and I mean, most people expect some level of it. If they’re in a bar, I mean.’
Mycroft nodded. ‘Well, we both attended the party,’ he said. ‘And I must say, it was not my preferred venue.’
Greg frowned. ‘Okay,’ he said.
‘Might I suggest a walk in a quiet garden instead?’
Greg’s mouth fell open. Was Mycroft flirting now? ‘Okay,’ he said slowly.
They turned together, their hands adjusting as they walked past the lamppost into the dimly lit space. Under the trees it was dark, but nothing in London is ever truly devoid of light, and the world descended into the blurry black-and-white of a city night.
‘This is better,’ Greg said. ‘Than the party, I mean.’
‘It is,’ Mycroft murmured.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, puffs of breath swirling and disappearing like breadcrumbs from a followed path. ‘Might I ask,’ Mycroft said suddenly, ‘what made you decide to change?’
‘It was your birthday,’ Greg said. ‘So I could buy you that book. And I just…’ he shrugged, even though Mycroft might not have been able to see it in the dark. ‘Figured it was better to have tried and failed than not to have tried.’
He was aware he was paraphrasing the quote, but anything with ‘love’ in it would be wildly out of the realm here. Whatever he felt for Mycroft – and he hadn’t dare try and put a label on it – love was not the word he would use right now.
‘I see,’ Mycroft replied. ‘And if this was to continue, what would that mean to our friendship?’
Greg swallowed, considering. ‘Why?’ he couldn’t help asking.
‘On considering the change to our communication, I find I have enjoyed it,’ Mycroft said. They came to a small bridge over a small pond, dark save the glints of light sparking off the surface. ‘Would that be impossible to continue?’
‘No,’ Greg said. ‘We could do that.’ They continued for a bit before he asked, ‘What… I mean, what about this?’ He lightly squeezed Mycroft’s hand.
To his alarm, Mycroft stopped, though their fingers remained tangled. There was enough ambient light to be able to see, though Mycroft’s figure was cast in shades of black and grey. Greg imagined the serious eyes were roaming his face, hoping to glean any hint of his expression in the dim light.
‘It is… unfamiliar,’ Mycroft said. ‘But not unpleasant.’
Greg nodded, swallowing. He wouldn’t have thought even this was possible earlier this evening, yet now he yearned for the more that sometimes came to him in the middle of a particularly lonely night.
‘I could not tell you when I last held hands with someone,’ Mycroft was saying. Greg was watching his face, so he didn’t see Mycroft’s free hand coming up to cup his jaw. He froze, eyes widening as he tried to read Mycroft’s expression.
‘I have wondered if you would allow me to kiss you,’ Mycroft said quietly.
‘What?’
‘I apologise,’ Mycroft said immediately, his hand dropping from Greg’s face.
‘No,’ Greg said, reaching out. ‘I just mean… you’ve thought about kissing me?’
‘I have,’ Mycroft said. There was a second’s hesitation before he ventured cautiously, ‘Please do not think that my lack of recognition of your flirting was a lack of interest in physical intimacy.’
Greg almost choked but managed to swallow instead. ‘Oh,’ he managed. Carefully, he guided Mycroft’s hand back to his cheek. ‘Well, you would be very welcome to kiss me,’ he said. ‘If you want to.’
The long fingers in his tightened, and it took a second for him to realise Mycroft was leaning in, but Greg’s eyes drifted closed as Mycroft’s lips met his. The kiss was slow and not gentle, exactly, but the firm press sought only to confirm its own existence. Greg returned the pressure, his mind drifting as though he was in a dream. He couldn’t believe he was here, and this whole half of his evening had an edge of unreality to it.
Quiet instead of loud.
Cool grey instead of vibrant colour.
‘Mycroft,’ Greg murmured, when the kiss broke and they stood close. The snow had started falling again, invisible until it caught in hair and on shoulders, a brief touch before melting. ‘What are you doing on New Years’?’
‘I have no specific plans,’ Mycroft replied.
‘You want to come on a date with me?’
‘Very much,’ Mycroft replied. He hesitated. ‘Will you show me your proper flirting?’
‘If you like,’ Greg said, smiling. ‘Maybe we should go to a bar or something.’
‘I believe that would be horrendous,’ Mycroft replied, flashing a smile. ‘Perhaps something quieter?’
‘I can work with that,’ Greg said. He leaned in, kissing Mycroft again. It was going to be a good year, he told himself. More of the quiet and less of the bright and loud. Cool grey instead of bright colour. A heart full of us.