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There was no protocol on the procedure to follow, no rules, no custom. Without a doubt, this did not seem to be a problem for the rest of the world, which was content, with little respect for decency, with acting on instinct, or at least that was what Mycroft thought.
The act itself, simple as it was, gave Holmes a hard time. So, as usual, he had postponed its existence until he could no longer ignore it.
It was not an absence of desire, nor even a bodily revulsion. Mycroft simply did not see the utility, envy and importance of such a manoeuvre. Yet it seemed essential, necessary, almost mandatory. He had never accosted anyone, except himself, and potentially Sherlock, having never resorted to such methods. It looked very much like a rite of passage, a festive tradition, a religious code.
Clearly, it wasn’t vital. The human body was perfectly capable of living without it. The brain was fully competent and more efficient without such distractions.
Yet the whole world seemed to revolve around this. There were so many variants, so much information to take into account, which could influence the results, making the moment unpleasant or euphoric. All this did not resonate with pleasure and satisfaction, but with calculation and observation.
Determined to understand and learn, Mycroft did what he did best: examine.
In the morning, when Gregory came out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his hips, his mind hovered over the lines of his body, looking for something that would indicate the precise moment when his desire would be welcome. The information mingled at once, forming a thick fog, hiding his view, preventing him from a glimmer of exit. Greg would sit on the edge of the kitchen table, an eyebrow raised, but he wouldn’t add anything. He’d just stare at Mycroft with worry, his coffee in hand. He never said anything, offering Mycroft no verbal indication, no invitation, no door ajar. The detective was content to dress himself, swallow his breakfast, and leave the apartment with a tender hand against Mycroft’s strained and perplexed shoulder. He dared not speak, his mind burning with questions.
That same evening, Mycroft returned home, greeted by the warm smell of a lovingly prepared meal. He placed his umbrella against the wall, next to the door, and looked for Greg. He found him, dressed in his work clothes, one hand lighting a candle and the other standing at the table.
When his eyes caught sight of him, Mycroft resumed his examination.
The table had been decorated with a checkered tablecloth, on which lay warmly two empty plates, a bowl, presumptuously filled with strawberries, two glasses of wine and a bouquet of fresh flowers.
Gregory smiled at him, with one of his sumptuous smiles, those that had the result of lightening Mycroft’s mind. He made a gesture of invitation, insinuating to Mycroft that he was welcome at the table, at his side, if he wished, and the politician did not ask for a prayer. He took off his jacket, which he folded and placed on the sofa, and sat down in front of the detective, whose smile lit up the room.
A smell of pasta and mint emerged from the room, and Mycroft’s stomach reappeared.
"I thought you’d appreciate it if we spent an evening together like this," confessed Greg, his fingers wrapping around his glass of wine and his eyes frozen on his lover. "I’ve been quite absent lately."
Mycroft mirrored Gregory’s gestures, his palm gripping his glass in turn.
"Are you unhappy with our current dynamic?" he worried.
"No, but I missed you."
Mycroft nodded, his jaw clenched and thoughts smoking.
"Is there anything you would like me to do about it?"
Greg hummed, his lips, his hand laying his glass on the table and grabbing a serving of pasta.
"Not really, "he replied. "I am delighted with our current situation. I had just missed having dinner with you. I thought it would please you, or at least I hoped it would please you as much as me."
"It is, Gregory. I like having dinner with you."
The detective smiled, delighted to see that the pleasure was shared, and swallowed another bite.
Mycroft found himself at the starting point. His mind could not find the flaw, the moment that told him to act. There was no sign, no note hanging over their heads that was shouting now. Defeatist, but thoughtful, Mycroft redirected his attention to the meal. He glanced here and there in the hope of discovering something, anything, that would whisper the answers to him, but he saw only the detective’s bright pupils, highlighted by rosy cheeks and an angelic smile.
Mycroft was so hoping to find in his eyes a reason to plunge headfirst.
"Is everything okay?" Greg asked, looking worried. "You seem preoccupied these past few days."
Mycroft blinked several times, his fork spinning on his plate, before releasing it completely.
"I find myself in a dead end lately," he admitted.
"How so?" asked Greg, observing him with all the tenderness and love of which he was built.
"I wonder if the current intimate configuration of our relationship is enough for you."
The detective stopped all movement, his brows furrowed. "I’m not sure I understand, Mycroft."
"I worry about our physical proximity."
"Our physical proximity?"
"Yes," continued Mycroft, his tone serious and his heart throbbing. "We have been in what looks like a relationship beyond friendship for several months now. I’m just worried that our current connection isn’t working for you."
Greg nodded, his lips pursed, trying to keep up.
"I am very happy like this," he assured him. "As long as I have you, I will always be very happy."
"Alright," Mycroft said, "But would you be happier with a different arrangement?"
Greg stepped back into his seat. "What kind of arrangement?"
Mycroft felt his heart beat faster, a clear sign of his anxiety and doubt about the gait. He took a deep breath, his eyes firmly finding those of Greg.
"I would like you to kiss me," he whispered. "If you feel the same desire, or curiosity, about the subject, I would like it to be taken into account."
The room became frightfully silent. Greg had become marble, taped to his seat, his lips half-opened. Mycroft watched him, examined for a negative indication, but nothing came of it.
"I would really like to kiss you."
Mycroft’s heart suddenly lightened at the understanding of these words spoken with such gentleness.
Greg moved his chair back, sat up, walked around the table and extended a hand. Mycroft, confused, simply grabbed it and let himself be directed. Soon, he found himself sitting on the sofa beside Gregory. His eyes were filled with love and patience.
"We need to talk about it, first." he said, prompting Mycroft to nod. "Have you ever done this before?"
Mycroft hesitated to answer, shame taking over.
"There is no judgment in my words, angel. It doesn’t matter the answer; everything is fine."
Greg pressed his thumb against his skin, caressing the hidden anguish.
"No." susured Mycroft. "No one ever said they wanted to share such an experience with me, which was mutual, until I met you."
The detective smiled, and Mycroft began to melt. "I’m glad to hear it, but if you change your mind, know that it won’t make me disappear. I love you, whatever you want or don’t want to experiment with me."
A warmth appeared in his heart, and Mycroft, who was certain that he had never been so respected and loved, melted.
"I want to kiss you," he promised, the words heavy with meaning. "I want you to kiss me, too."
"That’s usually how things go, angel," giggled Greg, amused by his lover’s innocent desire. "How do you want to proceed?"
"The way we’re supposed to."
Greg made an effort to be kind in his words, the novelty of the thing clearly written on Mycroft’s face.
"There is no precise way to kiss someone," confessed Gregory. "The beauty of the moment lies in sharing and communication."
"So I have to communicate my desires to you, and you yours, to conclude a positively equivalent result?"
Mycroft had his own way of expressing things, but Greg loved him for it.
"Yes," he replied. "You share with me what pleases you and, if it gives me some satisfaction, I could repeat the acts in question."
Mycroft seemed to understand.
"What if I don’t possess the knowledge of these desires?"
"We can discover them, together, at our own pace." Greg squeezed his palm into his, the room filled with patience, support, and kindness. "There’s no pressure. We can do things as slowly as you like."
"Very well," whispered Mycroft, whose heart accelerated from minute to minute, but whose desire to move forward did not miss. "I’d like to try that, if you want it too."
"Don’t worry about my desire to kiss you; I have dreamed of this since I met you."
Mycroft’s throat tightened, now aware of the reciprocity of the act. His eyes found Greg, standing by his side, one hand on his thigh and the other on his palm.
"Do you want me to take the first step?" asked the detective, patient.
Mycroft, unsure what course of action to take, nodded.
"Very well," Greg continued, reducing the distance between them and sticking their thighs to each other. "I’ll take it easy, okay? You stop me if anything makes you uncomfortable."
Again, Mycroft merely gave a nod.
Greg slowly withdrew his hand from Mycroft’s, drawing a sudden sigh, evidence that things were moving, and gently pulled it up to the politician’s chest. He did not touch him, but simply let his palm fly over the fabric that separated him from Mycroft’s skin.
With a throbbing heart, Mycroft nodded, inviting Greg to continue.
Gradually, his palm rested against the shirt of the politician, whose heartbeat violently bounced in him. Greg stood motionless for a moment, his hand caressing Mycroft’s chest peacefully.
"Is that okay?" he asked.
Holmes breathed in for a long time before saying that yes, it was more than okay.
Gregory continued, always with patience and care, his palm sliding down the nape of Mycroft’s neck, stopping just under his ear, his thumb forming arcs of a circle against it.
Mycroft melted under the touch, not accustomed to being touched like that, but did not complain.
"And that?" asked Lestrade. "How does it make you feel?"
The politician’s eyelids closed on their own, softened by the gesture.
"It feels," he tried. "It feels good. Reassuring."
"Do you want me to continue like this?"
Mycroft opened his eyes.
"Only if you want to."
Greg, all smiling, had burning cheeks. "I would like to go further, if you allow me."
Impatient, curious, and intoxicated by these new sensations, Mycroft nodded.
Slowly, Gregory slid his fingers along his cheek, tearing off an uncontrolled tremor. The detective stopped immediately, feeling the field, not trying to scare Mycroft away. Seeing no hindrance coming from him, he resumed, his fingers analysing each piece of skin. Mycroft was breathing hard, so hard that he could no longer hear his heart beating. Gregory’s palm against him made a flame burn inside of him that he did not know existed.
Suddenly, Greg’s fingers found his lips and the world stopped turning.
"And that?" he asked. "What do you think of that?"
Every question drew a sigh from Mycroft.
"Electrifying."
"Is this a good or bad thing?"
Another sigh.
"A very good thing."
Mycroft saw Greg’s smile grow, and soon the detective’s fingers were going through his hair. There, Mycroft lost control. It was so comfortable. His eyelids closed automatically, and his body continued the contact, desperate to receive more.
"You like it, don’t you?"
This time, the sigh turned into a growl, a sound that Mycroft had never made before. His face turned red, embarrassed.
"It’s very good," Greg reassured him, his fingers still placed in his hair. "You have the right to love what you like, angel."
Mycroft clenched his jaw, but with Gregory’s palm in his hair, he didn’t stay tense for long. Slowly, the detective’s fingers found his cheek and the politician opened his eyes, meeting those of Greg filled with desire.
"I really want to kiss you now."
Mycroft froze, his throat clenched. Involuntarily, his gaze found the detective’s thin lips and, suddenly, the act did not seem so frightening to him.
"Is that okay?" asked Gregory, terribly loving.
Mycroft nodded, for the umpteenth time, expecting to feel Greg’s lips against his. Only, these slowly moved against his neck, and Mycroft thought he had fainted. The touch was soft, tender and light, and Holmes wanted more. Gregory laid several kisses along his neck, followed by another one under his ear, and Mycroft could not stop his jerky breathing from betraying him.
"It is," he stammered. "It’s pleasant."
"I agree," Greg smiled against his skin. "But there is much more, if you want to see."
Mycroft froze his gaze in his, seeking an anchor.
"Show me."
Greg didn’t wait another second and slipped his lips against the politician’s cheeks, then under his eye, as well as on the tip of his nose. The detective kissed him everywhere except where envy burned the politician the most. Mycroft found himself, astonished, desiring Greg’s lips against his own.
"Kiss me." he ordered, in a torture.
"I am kissing you already."
Mycroft swore, between two electrifying kisses.
"Kiss me properly."
Greg smiled, then sat up, his eyes finding those of the politician with malice.
"Ask me politely."
Mycroft pinched his lips, his fists atrociously clenched.
"Gregory," he whispered. "Can you please kiss me?"
One hand made its way against his hips while another firmed up against his cheek.
"With pleasure."
Their lips met. Tenderly, at first, offering Mycroft a preview of the love that Gregory had for him, then, gradually, the breaths became jerky.
Greg stepped back, giving Mycroft a chance to stop everything.
"What did you think of th—"
His words were crushed by a pair of lips appropriating the conversation. Greg, surprised, let Mycroft take the lead, but soon his hands were on his hips, and the detective was completely carried away. The politician’s perfume was intoxicating and his lack of experience invisible. Mycroft learned far too quickly for his taste.
Suddenly, Holmes drew back, grabbing all the air he could, his eyes black.
"That," he admitted. "Was incredible."
Mycroft needed nothing more than Gregory to understand the importance of a kiss.