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Mycroft takes in the cafe’s artfully distressed furniture and wall of astoundingly ugly oil paintings.
Greg follows his gaze. “I know it’s a bit pretentious, but the coffee’s good.”
After a sip, Mycroft agrees.
“So,” Greg says. Mycroft assesses the quiet, firm voice: Greg’s been working up his nerve for this; he was surprised by the dinner invitation, more surprised by the fact that he wanted to go; now, past the rush of adrenaline and endorphins, he remains surprised by his own attraction. Mycroft could tell him that attraction was written all over his face long before Greg recognised it, but he learned long ago how people react to having their feelings deduced for them.
“So,” Greg repeats. “Our… date… didn’t exactly… go….”
After a moment, it becomes clear that the end of that sentence isn’t coming. Mycroft says, “Indeed, it did not… go.” He fights the urge to take the lead. Whatever the next move in this little dance they’re doing, it will have to come from Greg, or not at all.
“Why?” Greg shakes his head. “No, how? No.” He squeezes his eyes shut, pauses, opens them again. “When you asked, you knew I’d say yes.”
“I hoped.”
“This is… new… for me,” says Greg, “but there’s a first time for everything, right?” He smiles, and Mycroft positively beams.