Mycroft watched from where he lay on the sofa, lounging back against the deep, plush cushions with a delicate glass of sherry in one hand and a thin cigarette in the other, as Greg reached up to tack up the other end of a long string of white lights to the top corner of the ceiling. He strained up, balancing precariously on the top platform of the stepladder, and Mycroft - raising the cigarette absently to his lips - admired the manner in which the cotton shirt stretched taut across Greg's back and shoulders, the flimsy material leaving the outline of his muscles very pleasantly exposed.
Despite the miserable weather that had been battering London relentlessly for the past fortnight, (Thank god for umbrellas, was all Mycroft could say!) the interior of their flat was filled with the warm, enveloping heat radiating from the log burner Greg had insisted on no sooner than their deposit had gone through. Due to several unfortunate concerning disposable barbeques and his mother-in-law's cat, Greg had been banned from playing with fire during his marriage but had somehow managed to convince Mycroft that they definitely needed some sort of wood burner. Ambience and all that.
As it happened, since winter had struck, Greg had become distinctly more practised in his skills, and their little flat was as warm as if the weather outside was bright sunshine, rather than bitterly cold; their shirtsleeves were rolled up above their elbows, their fingers tingled with the contrasting temperatures whenever they came home, and there was a perpetual flush in Mycroft's cheeks which Greg found utterly delightful and incentive enough to keep the fire constantly burning.
"That isn't straight, you know." Mycroft smirked and drew hard on his cigarette, letting a plume of cinnamon smoke curl away and mingle with the scent of burning oak.
Greg glanced down with a raised eyebrow, looking deeply unimpressed. "Indeed?
"Mmmhmm." Mycroft exhaled slowly, closing his eyes and savouring the sensation washing through him. "You're twelve degree out."
Greg humphed and reached up once more with a muttered, "I'll twelve degrees you in a minute…"
Mycroft laughed – not his usual low chuckle of amusement, but a full bodied laugh that crinkled his features and splashed sherry onto the carpet. "That sounds pleasant," he said smoothly with a challenging twinkle in his eye, still grinning as he watched Greg yank the drawing pins back out of the wall.
Greg pursed his lips and tried not to allow himself to rise to it. He could feel Mycroft's eyes upon him, waiting and willing him to react, but he was determined not to. Just to prove he could resist. Not that he was petty or anything…
He heard the leather of the settee squeak as Mycroft rose, the chink as he set his glass down purposefully upon the coffee table and the hiss of the cigarette being stubbed out. Greg stretched up, almost on tiptoe, as he reached high into the corner, the pins between his teeth pricking his tongue.
Mycroft moved languidly around him, his eyes never leaving Greg as watched him with a proud affection that had suddenly overcome him. He reached up his own arm and brushed a hand from Greg's hip down his leg and smiling at the shiver barely concealed by the jeans.
Glancing down, Greg's gaze was met with an impish expression. "Mycroft," he mumbled through his mouthful of pins. "Do you want this done or not?"
The hand ascended the length of his leg again, Mycroft's long fingers extending to their full hand-span. "I can think of several things I would prefer more…"
A long sigh escaped Greg's lips as the hand dipped round, and he shifted awkwardly on the stepladder as a delightful tingle ran through him. He spat the pins into the palm of his hand, afraid that any more loss of control would result in a particularly painful morsel, and cocked his head to one side with a wry smile. "Behave yourself," he chided teasingly, batting half-heartedly at the linger hand with its deliciously curling fingers. "You can't do things like that at Christmas. Didn't anyone ever tell you?"
The string of lights fell unceremoniously onto the mantelpiece, sending Christmas cards scattering in all directions as Greg was pulled down in a sudden display of strength and a low growl – Mycroft was never one to pass up a challenge of any sort, especially one as tantalizing as this.
They stood nose to nose in a slow battle of hands, each trying to goad the other into throwing the first move without speaking.
They toppled onto the sofa before either gave in, falling down in a tangle of limbs and a collision of lips, teeth and tongues. Mycroft's hands fisted the folds of Greg's shirt, pulling them both tight together and trying to consume him as though he were starving, leaning up and needing more.
Greg chuckled against the kiss, allowing Mycroft to possess him. He opened his eyes and ground his hips experimentally against Mycroft's, watching to gage the other's reaction. He was rewarded as Mycroft's lips parted in an illicit, irrepressible moan – soft and warm and sweet with sherry.
Greg raised his neck a fraction to look down upon Mycroft's face, admiring the subtle wince or arousal, the delicate pink in his cheeks, and the crease in his brow as he glared up at Greg for breaking the kiss.
He would whine in a moment, Greg thought with a smile. A low, wheedling whine which would be accompanied by the suggestive arching of his back and his hands scooping down between layers of fabric – encouraging and desperate and entirely irresistible. But Greg was patient enough to wait, enjoying the power of being about to hold Mycroft suspended on a moment and completely in control, even if it were only for a few seconds. He watched Mycroft's eyes crack open and his lips – swollen and pink – disappeared between his teeth, trembling with anticipation and wavering endurance.
"Gregory!" There was the whine, and it sent a pleasant jolt down through Greg to settle between then. Mycroft strained upwards pleadingly, trying to catch Greg in a kiss.
"Nuh uh." Greg pulled back further, enjoying holding Mycroft on the brink. "No mistletoe."
A low, guttural growl rose up in Mycroft's throat and vibrated through their entwined bodies; he wrapped his arms tightly around Greg's shoulders and wrenched him down, closing the distance between with a muttered, "Fuck the mistletoe."
Greg decided he couldn't really argue with that.