Not three hours after the end of his last lecture Mycroft is holding on to a beer, wearing a shirt he’s borrowed, feeling different in a way he hadn’t expected. His classmates carry on loud conversations about absolutely nothing and he likes that he was invited, that they were kind enough to get him a beer, let him borrow something to wear, but his attention drifts. It settles on the stage at the back of the pub, where four students are setting up to play. He expects to hate it, and thinks of the ways he could slip away unnoticed, but then the lead singer strums once, twice, on his guitar, and he steps up to the microphone, and he says: “Hello everyone, good to see you!” And Mycroft is lost.
People drift around, but Mycroft only drifts closer to the stage, watches in awe as the band plays together like they love this, not flawless or well-conducted but full of joy. The lead singer laughs and screams and sings with his whole heart, getting progressively sweatier as the night progresses. When it’s over everyone but Mycroft cheers. He only realises he’s forgotten to participate in the applause when the lead singer looks at him directly and raises one eyebrow, and then he can’t help but grin.
“I loved it,” he says, hoping he’ll be able to tell from his face what he means, considering how loud the crowd is.
In a day of firsts, first day of classes of his summer course, first time going to a hairdresser without Mummy, first time in a student union bar, Mycroft smokes his first cigarette behind said union bar. He follows Lottie out, when she nods to the door with a question in her eyes. “Do you want?” She asks, holding out her package, and he almost says no, that he hadn’t even realised that that’s what she wanted to go outside for. But he takes it, and lets her light it, and when she asks if it’s his first he nods. “In and then in again,” she says, “but slowly or you’ll cough.”
It takes a few tries, but then Mycroft gets to lean against the wall with her, and chat about the band, and the classes, her boyfriend who’ll be traveling the continent all summer. Mycroft hadn’t intended to tell anyone he’s not at university yet, that he’s in this course as a special favour, but Lottie is kind about it. “Better than school,” she says, with a wink. He wonders if she knows, if that’s what she’s winking for, and then the lead singer of the band steps out, a cigarette already between his lips, and he can’t stop himself smiling fast enough. Surely, she’ll know now. Nothing looks different about her when his eyes flick back over. She just hands him the lighter, and goes back inside.
“You got a light?” The lead singer asks, and Mycroft almost tells him he doesn’t smoke, before he remembers he’s holding a cigarette and a lighter. “Cheers,” the man says. “’M Greg.”
“Mycroft,” he answers, his chest tight from the smoke, his voice different than it usually is.
“Did you really?” Greg says, and Mycroft digs around to... oh.
“Absolutely,” he promises. “You were all really one with the music, convincing and alive.”
“That’ll go on our next poster,” Greg jokes, but his eyes shine with warm gratitude. “Is that your girl?”
“Not at all,” Mycroft promises. Greg looks around before stepping a little closer and Mycroft –
“Ow,” he swears, dropping the cigarette that had burned his fingers. When he looks back up Greg’s whole face is alight. Very close too. He leans back against the wall again, doesn’t break eye contact, and tries to keep breathing as Greg leans in.
He tastes of smoke and beer, as Mycroft does, and he kisses like he sings, warm and full of dedication. He leans closer and closer until Mycroft is flat between him and the wall, the skin over his hipbone singing with the touch of Greg’s calloused thumb, pressed up just a bit under his shirt. They kiss until Greg winces violently, jerks back, and looks at his hand in disappointment. He’s let his cigarette burn him too. They laugh fall back into each other, and pick the kissing back up.
When Mycroft returns to the bar again the next night he only thinks of one thing. And he finds it. Greg is up on the stage, his hair spiked, his skin aglow. Mycroft is breathless all over again, and this time there is no Stephen dragging him back to the dorm they share because he’d forgotten his key. No classmates around at all. When Greg ends his last song, and Mycroft cheers along with the crowd, Greg nods to the door as they look at each other.
It only takes him ten minutes to meet Mycroft out front, his guitar case in hand, a leather jacket around his shoulders. Mycroft almost asks him if he’s leaving, before deciding he’s of the age where firsts are bound to happen. So he takes Greg’s free hand, and lets himself be lead to a dorm near his own.
The room is dark, messy and cluttered and lived-in. Greg doesn’t bother with the lamp, only kicks the door closed, sets his case down, and advances on Mycroft. Who whines into the kiss. Lets Greg’s hands slip between his back and his waistband, and pull them close together. Something hurts, something in him, but it helps to hold Greg’s face and kiss with abandon and to go where he leads him, until the backs of his calves hit the bed. Then it flares.
Greg opens his eyes to look at him, softens immediately, hands not so insistent, the pressure along his front not so firm. “We don’t gotta,” he promises, gentle despite his rough voice. “What are you thinking?” He urges, playing with the hair just above Mycroft’s neck.
“That I want to,” Mycroft tells him. He’s not sure though, the hurt is still there, his stomach hollow with it. Greg steps back with a little smile, takes his hand, helps him to sit. Then he kicks off his shoes and stretches out on the narrow bed. He looks inviting, the bit of stomach where his shirt rides up, the way his eyes shine at Mycroft, the very smell of him. Mycroft takes his own shoes off and swings a leg over to sit on Greg, leans in to kiss.
Warm arms around his back make him feel better, the way Greg’s hips roll a little, lazily and without hurry makes him feel safe, and when Greg tips them over to the side he hooks his leg around Greg’s back to keep him close. Gets a huff for his trouble. “You like that?”
“Mm,” he offers into the kiss. Unsure, still. He does like this, but he wouldn’t know what to do with it, with the press behind his zip, the need that’s building with it. After a bit more kissing Greg leans away again, pecks him on the nose with a fond look in his eyes, and then on the lips twice more. He climbs out of bed as if they weren’t in the middle of something, rummages around the room a bit, and puts on slippers to go out into the hall, leaving Mycroft a bit confused and definitely aching. He decides to take the opportunity to catch his breath, and looks around now that his eyes have gotten used to the dark. It’s a nice enough room, simple as they all are, probably. He slows down his breathing by thinking about it, and realizes the room smells nice. Like Greg, his washing powder, his cologne.
The door gets pushed open again and Mycroft sits up a little, hoping it’s not –
“Hullo,” says Greg when he kicks the door closed again. He’s holding two steaming mugs. “Do you take milk or sugar?” The whole room smells like earl grey now, and Mycroft shakes no, accepts his tea. Picks out the bag and swings it into the bin Greg holds up for him. Greg rearranges the pillows on the bed and both of them lean against the wall, taking careful sips while the tea is still just this side of too hot. They don’t speak but Greg’s steady breathing makes him comforting to sit next to. Until he lets out a little snort of laughter.
“What?” Mycroft turns to look at him, careful not to slosh his tea.
“Bizarre thing to do, really,” Greg says, which doesn’t explain much, “aw the bloke I took home’s a virgin, best make him a cuppa!”
Mycroft smiles into his mug. It is a bit odd. “You needn’t have told me that,” he says, “I might’ve assumed this is a common part of the proceedings.”
Greg barks out a proper laugh. “That’s what I should have done!” He laughs easily, like he’s fine, just happy, like whatever happens doesn’t matter, he’ll be good. The next breath Mycroft takes comes easier than all the other ones have, since... Tonight? Yesterday? Puberty? He lets another deep breath carry the thought away, wants to be only here, only happy. Like Greg seems to be. “So Myc – can I call you that? Myc? What are you in for?”
“In for?” Mycroft asks, “I’m here for a summer course. Personal interest.” He thinks for a moment. “Myc is alright. Not in public though,” he looks at Greg, whose eyes shine with interest. “Wouldn’t want other people to take such liberties.” Greg laughs again, his eyes crinkled as if he’s surprised and overcome with Mycroft’s wit. Mycroft wants to know what he’s studying, what his mums name is, what his favourite foods are in order of how likely he’d be to actually cook them. “Is there anything you love more than performing music?” He asks.
Greg looks at him, then brightens all the way up with a wide grin, and says: “Fire.”
It startles a laugh out of Mycroft. “Fire?”
“Yeah,” Greg says, and he takes their empty mugs over to his desk, comes back to the bed and kneels on it, right in front of Mycroft. “Like when you’re camping and you get to make a good big one and roast sausages over it. Or when you’re on the beach with mates and you sing like you’re pirates and dance around it.”
Mycroft thinks of gathering wood and trying to make it catch and the way Sherlock screams and laughs and the way the salt crackles and... agrees. “Yeah,” he says, “alright, fire.”
He’s still smiling about it when Greg kisses him, a bit insistent, but this time he doesn’t feel fear, he doesn’t feel hollow. He feels warm with tea and alight with excitement. He shuffles down the bed a little and then lies down, pulling Greg with him. Tastes tea and also toothpaste on him, can’t help but smile wider when he notices it.
“Brushed your teeth?” He asks, and Greg laughs a little.
“Didn’t want to taste of ashtray for you,” he says, like he’s shy about it, and Mycroft blinks his eyes open to peek up at him and grin, lets the hand he had on Greg’s neck travel down and then up a little so it sits on his warm side, then up further and across his back. Greg leans back a little and bites his lip. “Do you want to see? You should ask, you know, if you want something.”
He’s not sure what see means in this instance but he is absolutely certain he wants it, and he stares in fascination as Greg pulls his shirt off over his head. Mycroft sits up and explore with his fingertips, marvels at being allowed, and then when he looks up at Greg to try and read what he’s thinking of, he marvels at being wanted. It takes a moment to swallow that feeling down, the one that rises hot heavy in his throat, but he manages by focusing on Greg’s chest. “More,” he whispers, suddenly greedy, and he lets Greg help him out of his shirt. Sighs into the kiss he gets next when it brings their chests together, when warm hands tracing up and down his back make him shiver. He starts working on Greg’s belt and is relieved when Greg doesn’t ask him if he’s sure, just helps him. His own trousers follow, and then they’re naked and it’s excellent and entirely overwhelming, and he’s sensitive all over before Greg sits back between his spread legs and looks at him. It’s as affecting as his touches were, the message is as clear as if he’d used words.
It’s not a surprise when Greg kisses his stomach, and his thighs, and finally his cock, but it is a surprise how it makes Mycroft feel. How affirming it is, how sure he is of something he’s been told might just be a phase. This is it, he thinks, and then Greg sinks down on him and all he thinks is hot good coming.
His thighs tremble with it as Greg swallows and meets his eye, Mycroft’s cock still in his mouth. Mycroft tries to say something and it comes out a squeak, and Greg smiles. Kisses his hip a little before moving up. He tastes different. Obviously, Mycroft thinks to himself. And he’s still hard. On his hands and knees leaning over Mycroft his cock is hotter than should be possible, soft and steely when Mycroft touches it. His balls respond to Mycroft’s touch, and when he sets up a steady stroking Greg’s hips twitch with it. Mycroft uses his free hand to play with his balls, tease behind a little, unsure of if he should go further than teasing. It doesn’t matter, Greg groans into his mouth, he stutters and bucks, and warm come hits Mycroft’s stomach. “Aw shit,” Greg says.
“What?” Mycroft lets go immediately.
“Nothing,” Greg promises, “just came really hard, and that’s gonna start dripping soon.” It’s true, Mycroft can feel the come start sliding and when he laughs at the sensation it gets worse. “Shit,” Greg says again, “wait.” He leans off of the edge of the bed, picks up his shirt, and cleans Mycroft off best as he can before collapsing. Mostly on top of him, which is surprisingly nice.
“Does this mean I won’t get tea again next time?” Mycroft asks, and he immediately regrets it when Greg lifts his head up to look at him. Shouldn’t have assumed, shouldn’t have joked about his virginity being technical or non-existent now.
“Oh lord, no,” Greg says, proper appalled. “I’ll make you tea every time, all the time.” He kisses Mycroft’s nose. Then settles down again.