Mycroft's bed was already empty and neatly made when Greg woke up at seven the following morning, the pillow clamped tightly over his head and his half erect cock pushing in to the mattress. Greg lay on his front for a few moments, confusion swimming around his head. Had the previous night's events in the shower really happened? He was finding it hard to equate his prim and proper roommate with the seductive and stupendously well hung boy who had humped him against the wall of the shower.
Greg made his way to the dining hall for breakfast, nearly jumping out of his skin when Paul Bradstreet clapped him on the shoulder as he walked down the corridor.
"How's your arse this morning Greg?"
"What?"
"Did Mycroft Homo try to do you in the night?"
"You're really not funny you know?" Greg punched him back and they jostled in to the queue for food. When Greg turned around with a tray full of porridge, eggs, bacon and toast he noticed Mycroft, and his brother sat on their own at the end of one of the long refectory tables. Mycroft was buttering a slice of toast for Sherlock, his own breakfast, a rather health conscious looking bowl of granola, yoghurt and banana, to one side. Sherlock took the toast and nibbled the edge of the crust. Then he turned, his bright green eyes locking onto Greg and Paul, saying something to his brother which made Mycroft smile but shake his head. The younger boy smiled, his nostrils flaring a little as he smirked.
Then Mycroft looked over to where Greg and Paul were standing. The pale eyes flicking over Greg briefly, before their attention returned to breakfast. Mycroft picked up his spoon and took a generous quantity of food into his wide mouth. Very briefly the lips were smeared with a little yoghurt and Mycroft's tongue licked it away. Greg felt his knees wobble a little as he began to imagine those lips and what they could do. What it would be like to kiss them.
Greg had never really thought about the wider implications of having sex with someone. He supposed what had happened the previous night didn't actually count as sex. Neither did the frequent liaisons with the magazine men. But what he was wondering was what you called it when you thought about kissing someone and holding hands with them. When you thought about waking up with someone. In their arms. Their big strong arms, pillowed against a broad chest. What did you call that?
"Greg? Are we sitting down or what?" Paul Bradstreet nudged him in the back and pushed him in the general direction of the table containing most of the rugby team. Tim Anderson who played for the second fifteen at fullback scooted along the bench to let them sit down. Greg had no choice, he couldn't not sit with the rugby team, after all, he was the team captain. The talk at the table turned to the team try outs the following day and the prospect of new talent. Apparently, Harry Watson's little brother John had just started in first year, Harry Watson being the Captain previous to Greg. John was rumoured to be even better than his elder brother. Greg listened half heartedly, knowing that behind him, three tables away, Mycroft Holmes was sitting eating breakfast with that sensual mouth that could be better served working on Greg's cock.