Warnings: Underage drinking/smoking and a whole lot of swearing.
He shouldn't like Mycroft because Mycroft is so different from them. He's not like Luke who likes to get into trouble and he's not like Chuck who likes to play music so loud it threatens to give them permanent ear damage. He's too controlled, too posh, and really, he's the kind of person Greg and his friends make fun of because Mycroft's kind, they're almost nonhuman. He's one of those people the teachers love, the ones who actually want to make you feel comfortable school, the ones who greet you with the same brochure-worthy smile on your first day, and the ones who get bullied all the time.
Greg knows that he should like people like Cassie Mayhew who's fond of riling up their teachers. People like Anya Hinson and Paul Lucca who have bad reps in school, who earned their bad reputations. He should like people like Johnny Rotten, like Joey Ramone.
But what should happen doesn't.
It just happens. One moment Mycroft's his weird, omniscient-old self and the next, well, when he puts his hand on Greg's shoulder to be exact, Greg gets this weird feeling that makes him extra self-conscious and very, very aware of Mycroft's hand on his shoulder and Mycroft's proximity to him and—Okay, it just makes him very aware of Mycroft, alright? It also makes him very aware of the spots on his face and Mycroft's spots and really, really, people shouldn't think about spots. Who the fuck invented puberty anyway?
There's a growl in his ear, a warning, but Greg responds too late and is tackled to the ground. "OUCH!" He kicks his perpetrator, his foot landing squarely on Chuck's groin. "That fucking hurt, you git!"
"It's—rugby—" Chuck gasps, rolling away from Greg, his hands pressed to the front of his shorts. "Pay—attention!"
Luke runs up to them, the ball in his hand and looking far too muddy for his own good. "No more babies for you!" he yells cheerfully at Chuck and, to Greg's amusement, throws the ball down and throws himself at their friend. Greg tries to get up before he gets caught in the fray but Chuck holds him tightly. Somehow he ends up underneath the two of them.
"Can't breathe!"
"You deserve it." Chuck's arse is on his face, smelling of mud and grass and sweat and, well, arse, Greg supposes.
"I'm serious!" Greg says. He squirms until they finally roll off him. "Yuck." He wipes his face with the hem of his shirt. "You two are disgusting."
"Serves you right for possibly destroying my manhood. See." Chuck slides his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts and yanks them down to his knees, his pants following. They're in the field and it's already dark out but people can still see. Then again, modesty doesn't really apply to them.
Luke hoots upon seeing the damage. That will bruise in the morning, Greg thinks. "Sorry," he says, though he doesn't really mean it. "You caught me off-guard."
Luke eyes him sharply. He raises an eyebrow. Thinking about him again?
Greg rolls his eyes at him, feeling himself blush. Shut up.
Chuck pulls his shorts back up and scowls at the two of them. "Can you two not do that whole telepathy thing when I'm here? It makes me feel left out."
"We could teach you," Luke says. "It's easy."
"As if that will work."
It won't. They've done it before, tried to teach someone to catch up with them, but all attempts failed. It would be easier if they were twins so they won't have to explain it, but they're not, at least, not when it comes to biology. They're just really close; they look out for each other all the time. It's the reason why they're each other's best friends. It's not like they're antisocial. They have a respectable number of friends thanks to the pranks they pull, but when it comes to the other things, things that involve talking seriously, they're all they've got.
Chuck huffs but he doesn't say anything else. That's what Greg likes about Chuck. The others, they get furious when they're left out, but Chuck accepts it. "You owe me for my dick," Chuck tells him. He picks up the ball, tries to wipe the mud off the grass, and of course, fails to clean it. "Fuck. Ah well, I'll just clean it at home. Tomorrow, alright? Don't get into any trouble."
"Yeah, sure." Luke grabs him by the scruff of his neck and yanks him to his feet. He's muddy and he stinks of sweat but Greg doesn't remove the arm Luke throws over his shoulders. He's muddy as well, anyway, and besides, Luke will only gripe and lecture him about keeping safe.
"People look at you more," Luke always says in that voice Greg hates because it makes Luke sound older, much knowledgeable, which definitely isn't true. "It's better this way."
Greg would complain more but it's true. People do look. That's all they do, really. Most of the time. The younger ones, the people near Greg's age just stare or smile at him more. Older people touch him. They pat his head fondly or, on one embarrassing occasion while they were in Tesco, act all old-lady like by pinching his cheeks and telling him he looks adorable. Which he doesn't. Still, the cheek-pinching is better than that one time when they were in train and, well, it didn't go well. If Greg hadn't held him back, Luke would have punched the old man.
"He only offered me candy," Greg told him. "It's fine. I'm fine."
"He wasn't offering you any candy I know." Luke sighed and stared at him disapprovingly. "It's just…well, you look younger than you should. Baby-faced, you know?"
Greg hit him. He's not. Just because Luke is taller. It's not that he's even short anymore. He's gotten taller and he's not the shortest in his class. It's just that Luke's always been tall and gangly and will always be tall and gangly in Greg's opinion.
"You have mud in your ears," Luke says, still in the same cheerful tone, as they walk home. "And you've got blades of grass in your hair."
"You have mud in your brain," Greg replies. It gets him a playful but sharp pull to his hair.
"So how's, you know, that thing. With Mycroft?" Luke shoots him a pained smile. Greg rolls his eyes once more.
"You don't have to ask me about it."
"Yeah, but…We don't not talk about things. And as much as it pains me, I'm your sentinel and he's your…whatever."
Greg scoffs. "He's not my whatever. He's Mycroft. We're just friends."
"Oh come on, Greg. I'm the only one you can talk to about it."
Greg scowls. Luke's right, though. Mycroft—he's too different from them. His friends hate Mycroft, just like Luke, only unlike Luke they really can't tolerate his presence. They won't even make an effort. And Greg has to act the part, like he can't stand Mycroft. He feels a bit guilty but that's just what he's expected to do. And it's not like Mycroft's not playing his part either. He barely acknowledges Greg when he's with his friends, won't even talk to him unless he has to.
Greg's not sure if he's even acting or if that's just the way Mycroft is.
Luke pokes his stomach, dragging him back to the present. "You fancy him, though. Which is really weird but…can't do anything about that!" Luke salutes and winks at him. "I, Luke Rochewell, fully support this thing with Mycroft despite the fact that it sickens me to the bones since he's a posh git. But whatever because I love you, bro. I loooove you." He opens his arms and crushes Greg to his chest.
"Gah! Rapist!"
"I am not. Only sometimes. When people are sleeping."
"Jesus, get off me, will you?"
Luke plants a sloppy, messy kiss on the tip of his nose. "Well?" he asks, his eyes eager, expectant. "Well?"
"Nothing. We're not—he's not—" Greg sighs. He doesn't want to talk about it because there's nothing to talk about. Frankly, it's just confusing and sometimes it hurts because Mycroft will pull away or will tell him that he's uncomfortable, and somehow, he'll make it sound like it's Greg's fault. As if Greg's ever agreed to this. "We're not like that, alright? Besides, this thing will blow over. It's just this—this puberty shit. Getting to me."
"Greg," Luke says, "wouldn't it be easier? You're supposed to spend the rest of your life with him. I'd rather have you be in love with the guy than be formal with him in a bond."
Greg punches his shoulder. "Why are you getting so mushy all of a sudden?"
"Will you believe me if I tell you I've watched too much of The Revenge of Maria Ramona?"
Greg snorts. "Yeah, right. Soap operas aren't really your thing."
"They're yours."
"Say that again and I'll stick mud down your throat."
"Naomi's getting a divorce," Luke says in a tone which he thinks is casual but which Greg hears differently. They're not close, Luke and Naomi, but the thing is, you look out for your brother or sister even when you feel like they deserve to live in the pit of hell. It was a shotgun wedding, then a miscarriage, then depression, and now this. I'd kill the guy. Greg can read Luke's thoughts just by looking at his face any time. He can also tell when he means it and right now, Luke means it. Doesn't mean he's going to act on it, though.
"Ah."
"I don't want you to go through that," Luke admits. "It's messy and it's tiring and there's so much shouting."
"You know," Greg says, choosing his words carefully, "this pre-bond with Mycroft, it's just for us to get to know each other. I mean, I can always reject him once I turn twenty-one. Or he can reject me. Which I think he will. Or won't since his Father wants us to and, well, you know Mycroft."
"You have a choice," Luke reminds him. They stare at each other, for a moment, quite aware that they're no longer children, that things have changed and it's stranger now, harder, because there are expectations they have to meet. Luke brings his hand to his mouth and chews at his thumbnail nervously.
"Can we not talk about this?" Greg asks. Pleads. "Now? Or ever for that matter. This being serious thing—it doesn't suit us. Makes me feel old."
Luke laughs and he's back to his old self. "Right, right. Fuck, we've been out in the sun for too long, eh? Best go back to being Tweedledee and Tweedledum. "
He ruffles his hair fondly, making Greg laugh. It's alright, he thinks. This growing up and getting serious thing, as long as he's got Luke to make things amusing.
Greg doesn't like being serious but it doesn't mean that he can't be when the situation calls for it. He's not Luke which is a mistake so many people make. He's got manners for one thing and he knows when to keep his mouth shut. He has, in short, a sense of shame just like anyone else.
Thank the gods Luke doesn't fit in the category of normal.
The door slams open and Luke, with his hair gelled back and with the top button of his shirt left undone, strides in with—to Greg's horror—a large bouquet of flowers. "Madame Darlington!" he cries dramatically, drawing even more attention to him. As if that were possible. Greg shuts his eyes, opens them again. He's not dreaming. "Your knight in not-shining-armour has arrived!"
Mrs Darlington purses her lips and gives Luke the Death Glare. Luke's immune to it, probably because he doesn't care if he gets into trouble or not. Greg has to hand it to him. He can barely look at Mrs Darlington who, with her cold stare, hundred-something old face, and that disturbingly large mole near her nose, embodies the very definition of the word 'nightmare'. But Luke's smiling at her now, beaming at her beatifically, adoringly. Greg bites his lip and tries very hard not to laugh.
"You're not in detention, Mr Rochewell," Mrs Darlington grunts. "But I could easily add you to the list."
"Oh there's no need to do that, my beloved." Luke winks at her lasciviously. "You don't have to make up a reason for me to stay with you. People will talk but we should let them. Our love is far too beautiful a thing to stay hidden from the eyes of God and men."
Luke turns his head, enough for Greg to catch his eye. He waggles his eyebrows playfully. Go. I'll distract her.
Greg huffs. You're fucking mental.
"Shouldn't you be in your own building, Mr Rochewell? Instead of standing here, torturing me with your insipid babbling?"
"Such lovely words. Please, tell me more. My ears are just desperate to hear the sound of your voice."
Luke steps in front of her desk, blocking her view, and Greg takes it as his cue to slide out of his seat and slowly make his way to the window. Gemma Witte smirks at him when he passes by her table. "Careful," she whispers.
"I would write you a poem, Mrs Darlington, but alas! My writing skills are non-existent so I will borrow the tongue of a great poet to further adore your radiance." Greg looks back and sees that Luke is now sitting on the desk, a crumpled sheet of paper in his hands. "Listen! 'You must know that I do not love and I love you,/because everything alive has its two sides;/a word is one wing of the silence,/fire has its cold half./I love you in order to begin to love you,/to start infinity again/and never to stop loving you:/that's why I do not love you yet./I love you, and I do not love you, as if I held/keys in my hand: to a future of joy - /a wretched, muddled fate - /My love has two lives, in order to love you:/that's why I love you when I do not love you,/and also why I love you when I do.'"
Luke stops, turns to look at him, and grins when he sees that Greg's already climbed out the window and is standing on the ledge. "Are you more in love with me now, Mrs Darlington?" he asks, not dropping the act for one second.
"Mr Rochewell, that looks like it's been ripped from a book from the school library."
"Your eyes are deceiving you, my sweet buttercup." He slides off the desk. "I suggest you let these unfortunate beings go home early so that you can get your rest. You have flaws, but my love for you knows no bounds. Here are flowers to match your beauty, you gorgeous thing."
Oh god, Greg thinks, laughing a bit. He's really going to have to pay Luke back for this.
Greg slides the window shut carefully and slowly, slowly makes his way to the southern wing of the building. Don't look down, just don't look down and you'll be fine. He's done this before so distance doesn't really matter, but it rained recently. The ledge is slippery and if he's not careful…Well, a thirty-foot drop's not something you can easily survive.
He stops and drops from the ledge and onto the kitchen roof. "Shit shit shit!" he swears when he nearly slides all the way down. The gutter stops him from falling. It creaks dangerously under his feet, a long, low sound that makes his stomach twinge. Greg waits, breathing deeply, but nothing happens. He sighs, relieved. "I'm never going to do this again."
"I find that hard to believe," someone yells. Greg leans over the edge and sees that Chuck's already waiting for him. "Next time, try not to get caught when you're pranking the older guys."
"You didn't even join," Greg counters.
"Because I specifically told you two not to cause trouble today!"
"Couldn't help it," Greg admits. It's not an illness. He can live a day without pulling a fast one on some unfortunate being. But there are people who deserve it on a daily basis, and Luke just happened to have a lighter with him, and the smoke detector just happened to be there. It was practically blasphemy not to do it.
"Where's Luke?"
"Right here!" The leaves of the tree nearest to Greg rustles and Luke's face pops out, leaves clinging to his ridiculously made-up hair. "Told you, I'd beat you."
"We weren't racing," Greg reminds him. He leans over some more so that Luke can pull him towards him. "At least, I didn't have to flirt with the old hag."
"It was a glorious experience!" Luke protests. "Say that again and I'll wash your mouth with soap. You're insulting the love of my life."
"Seriously, Luke, drop the act."
"What act?"
"Luke."
"Fine. Wouldn't want to damage your virgin ears anyway." He climbs down, Greg following. "So," Luke says, clapping his hands together. "What are we going to do again?"
"We're going to Alexia Carter's party, remember?"
"That bint your brother's seeing?"
Chuck rolls his eyes. "She's not a bint, Greg."
"Only sometimes," Greg mutters under his breath, making Luke giggle.
"We should stop at my house first. Better get out of these uniforms."
Greg snorts. "You just want to see me naked."
"Oh, darling, I've seen everything," Chuck answers sarcastically. "Besides, that would be cheating on Luke-y here."
"Yeah, Greg. Fuck off. Messing with our relationship, breaking the children's hearts. You're a menace, cousin dear."
"What can I say? I have an excellent tutor."
"A goddamn sexy tutor."
"With no brain to speak of," Greg adds, smiling charmingly at Luke who scowls at him.
"Alright, stop it," Chuck says. "We're going to my house and you two are going to act civil." He looks at his watch. "At least for the next forty-five minutes."
"Is this necessary?" Greg coughs, his eyes watering. "I smell awful."
"As long as you don't smell like yourself," Chuck tells him. He stops, mid-spritz, then takes a deep sniff, coughing just as much as Greg. Still, he eyes him sceptically. "Wow, that's strong. I'm going to cough a lung. Oi, Luke, smell him, will you?"
Luke sniffs him, making little snuffling noises that sound like noises something small and furry would make. "You smell like my dad," Luke says frankly, fingers loosening their grip on the back of his neck. "But no trace of your second gender. Nor do you smell of Mycroft. Which is good, really. Wouldn't want people to think you're too posh for them."
"So what the fuck am I? A human-shaped cologne?"
"A Beta with a phobia of body odour," Chuck fills in.
"A burner of eyebrows and other unwanted body hairs," Luke adds.
Greg glares at them both. "I'm changing clothes."
"No time!" Chuck opens his closet and takes out a very battered leather jacket that smells like it's made out of cigarettes. "My brother's old one," Chuck explains. "Better to smell like smoke, right?"
Greg puts it on. It's soft and comfortable but it's a bit too big and makes him feel a bit like he's swimming in clothes. Still, it dilutes the smell of cologne. And it looks nice. He pulls one sleeve over his hand, slips his thumb in a hole that looks as if it was made with a knife.
"Dad's going to kill us," he tells Luke, "if we get caught."
"We're not." Luke doesn't sound convincing, doesn't look it either. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, biting his lower lip. "Our parents won't be back 'til next week and Gran's going senile. She's not going to notice that we're gone. I mean, she tried to feed you catfood."
"Gran's not crazy. I broke her glasses that time."
"You're not a bloody cat, Greg. And besides, do you really want to miss this?"
"Yeah," Chuck says. "Brandon's already doing us a huge favour by inviting us. I mean, we're only thirteen. And we're going there. Besides, there's adult supervision. We can always blame Brandon."
Greg thinks about it. "No," he admits. "You're right. It's a onetime opportunity."
Luke ruffles his hair. "Just stick to me and you—we—will be fine."
"Why am I suddenly filled with doubts?"
"Oh, you wound me. Evil boy." Luke pinches his cheek then forces him to look at the mirror. "Thirteen my arse. You look two—three years older."
Greg blinks. He looks weird. Different, but not bad weird. Maybe it's because he's in Brandon's clothes. Luke ruffles his hair even more then stands beside him, one arm slung over his shoulders. He blinks as well, as if he's seeing Greg for the first time. "Wow. You've gotten taller."
Greg looks, startled to see that he's almost up to Luke's ear.
"Huh. You're right."
"And then he said, he said lemons, and it was just—just fuck fuck fuck oh my fucking god. No shit, man, lemons. It was, it was the most amazing thing ever." Luke knocks his chest, his drink sloshing down Greg's shirt. "FUCKING AMAZING MAN FUCKING FUCKING AMAZING."
Greg doesn't respond. He's drunk. At least, he thinks he's drunk. He's not sure. He's never been drunk before, never had beer before, either. Greg peers at the empty red cup in his hand. "I'm out," he says. It's not funny but Chuck's brother and Chuck's brother's friends laugh hysterically. Chuck himself is already asleep, curled at his brother's side, and they've only seen two bands play. Greg blinks blearily, his eyes widening when he sees that the cup in his hand is already filled to the brim with alcohol.
"I think," he says slowly. His tongue feels heavy, a bit like a wet sponge in his mouth. Is this what being drunk is supposed to feel like? It doesn't feel too good. "I think I shouldn't…Uh. Um…Drink again."
Brandon laughs again, blowing smoke all over his face. He's cool, Brandon. He doesn't bully them and he finds Greg and Luke's pranks funny. His philosophy is to enjoy yourself while you're young so that you won't regret it when you're older which is something Greg fully believes in. Brandon's the older brother Greg wants and will never have. But that's alright, he's got Luke.
"Drink all you want, kid. How old are you now? Thirteen, right? It's alright. Don't sweat, I can drive you home. Just enjoy yourself."
Greg peers at the little white stick in Brandon's mouth. "Want to try?" Brandon asks and before Greg can respond, he's already fitting the cigarette in Greg's mouth. "Careful, careful," Brandon coaxes but Greg does it too quickly. He coughs, the cigarette flying from his mouth.
"Shit. Sorry." He spits. "Tastes awful."
"Nah, it went down the wrong pipe. Tastes good once you get used to it." He turns to Luke. "How about you Lucas? Want a try?"
"Who the fuck is Lucas?" Luke mutters. He's nearly cross-eyed which is weird since Greg is certain he's had more to drink than Luke. Maybe his alcohol tolerance is higher. "Gimme, gimme!"
Brandon lights him a new one.
"Blech!"
They laugh and Greg tries to smile but he finds that he can't do it. He's no longer enjoying their company. It must be the alcohol. He feels a bit sick, to be honest, and he desperately needs to take a piss. He looks at his cup once more then sets it on the table which is littered with empty cups and cigarette butts. "I need…" He pauses, searches for the right word. "Loo. Need it."
"Er, somewhere there." Brandon points past a couple of teenagers snogging on the couch. "Hurry up, okay? Next band will perform in two minutes."
"Yeah, sure."
Greg zips up Brandon's jacket then makes his way to the loo, stepping over people, a majority of them in their teens or early twenties. Greg notices that they're the only ones below sixteen, but for some reason, he doesn't find it appealing anymore. He feels…weird. A small part of his brain, the not-drunk one, is telling him that maybe he's just the second type of drunk, the sad bloke at the corner of the bar, drinking his life away. Luke's clearly the happy drunk, the one who tells stupid stories, while Chuck's the sleeper who misses out all the fun and becomes the subject of all sorts of embarrassing photographs.
His brain's also telling him that he's shit scared but that's not something he wants to dwell on, because if he does, he'll panic and everyone will know just how scared he actually is.
The bathroom must be soundproof because the noise level drops as soon as Greg closes the door behind him. He turns around and gets the shock of his life when he sees a girl around Brandon's age, leaning over the sink, her back to him. "Um," he starts, "I should go, right?"
She straightens then eyes him blearily. Greg's eyes drop to the white powder on the sink.
"Right I'll just go," he says, opening the door and stepping out, his bladder be damned. He bites his lip and wonders if he should tell Brandon that someone's sniffing cocaine in his girlfriend's bathroom. Then again, it feels like Brandon won't really care.
Two hours later, his head is pounding and all Greg wants to do is lie on a soft surface and sleep for a hundred years. He rubs his face and leans against Luke who looks like he's gone into a catatonic state. "I'm drunk," Greg moans. "I'm really, really, really drunk."
"I'm not. I think. I'm not?"
"You are. We're both drunk and we're going to die. You smell like the back of a bar."
"Go home?" Luke suggests and Greg whimpers a 'yes' against his neck.
"Okay." Luke stands up then sits back down again. "Huh. Ugh, how do I do this?"
"Brandon."
"Not here. We're on our own."
"Ngh…"
There's a soft slap to his face. "Hey," Luke says. "Wake up."
"Tired."
"Hey, look at me."
Greg tries but it's hard. His eyelids feel heavy. It makes him laugh. Eyelids. Heavy. They're fucking eyelids, they're not supposed to feel like anything. He cracks one eye open and sees Luke staring at him, suddenly sober.
"Jesus, how many have you had?"
"Hmmm…eight? Ten? HUNDREDS!"
"I've only had four. Jesus fuck, ten?" Luke shakes him. "Greg, snap out of it. Wake up, weirdo—"
The shaking. It's a big mistake. Greg opens his mouth to tell Luke to stop it but instead of words, he comes up with bile. "Shit!" Luke swears, shoving him away. "You just puked all over my shirt!"
"Sorry," Greg mumbles. He lies back on the cushions. "Sorry, sorry, don't feel riiiight."
"I need to get you home." Luke brushes his hair back and looks down at him, biting his lip. "Stay here, alright? Don't move."
Greg doubts he can, much less stand up. He closes his eyes and waits for sleep to get him.
Hangovers, Greg finds, are one of the most horrible things a person can experience. This has to be it, this head-pounding, brain-crushing feeling that makes him want to grab his stomach and throw it in the nearest bin, just to make it all stop. Greg rolls onto his side and buries his face in the soft sheets.
Sheets which don't smell like him.
This isn't his room. It smells clean for one thing and the bed is far too big. He sniffs. Mycroft's house, he thinks. He's in one of the guest rooms in Mycroft's place. He's hungover in one of the guest rooms in Mycroft's place. Which means that it was Mycroft who got them out of Carter's place. Which also means he's in a lot of trouble and—
"GREEEEEEG!"
Greg winces, then growls when the door swings open, bathing him in light. "Fucking hell! Shut the door!" he shouts, without thinking much of it.
"You smell gross," Sherlock tells him. He climbs on the bed and sits on Greg's legs. "Go down. Your stupid cousin's annoying me."
"Luke's here?"
Sherlock huffs angrily. "Didn't you hear me? He's downstairs with Mycroft."
"Luke's with Mycroft?"
"They're arguing and it's annoying. Go break it up."
Greg shoves him away. "My head's killing me."
"There's some Ibuprofen waiting for you." Greg looks up to see Sherlock searching Brandon's jacket. "Can I have this?" he asks, raising a half-empty box of cigarettes.
"No," Greg snaps, shuddering at the image of the seven-year-old lighting up. "Give me that."
"Why? You're not allowed to smoke." He pulls one out and sticks it inside his mouth.
"Sherlock, stop that!" Greg moves, ignoring his headache, and smacks the back of Sherlock's head, forcing him to spit out the cigarette.
"OW!"
"You made me do it!"
Oh great, Greg thinks. Now Sherlock's doing that fake-crying thing of his which will certainly get him into trouble with Mycroft. Well, even more trouble. It doesn't matter if it's fake. Make Sherlock cry and you've just signed yourself up for a death sentence.
"Sher," Greg starts but the kid's already running out the door. "Damn it!" Crap, if this is what he gets for getting drunk then he's never picking up a bottle again.
The household staff looks at him strangely as Greg slowly makes his way downstairs. One of them whispers something to her friend which Greg just knows is degrading. It's obvious from the way she glares at him. The look makes him blush. They're probably talking about how bad he is, about how he's going to corrupt Mycroft and little Sherlock.
Greg scowls. So what?
Means you're not good enough.
Luke and Mycroft are still arguing when Greg finally enters the kitchen. "You should have been more responsible," Mycroft snaps. He's glaring at Luke. Sherlock's pressed against his side, obviously enjoying the show. "He could have gotten really sick."
Luke scowls but surprisingly doesn't say anything back. He looks awful but he doesn't look like he's battling a huge headache, unlike Greg. He's sitting at the table, scowling at the bowl of cereal before him. "Really, Luke," Mycroft continues. "You don't even think."
"Oi," Greg growls. Fuck it if he's hungover and fuck it if he sort-of fancies Mycroft. He's not allowed to yell at Luke and call him stupid. Greg's the only one allowed to do that. "It wasn't Luke's idea so shut the hell up, My."
Mycroft glares at him. "And you. You weren't thinking either."
"I was having fun."
"You were getting drunk and smoking up a storm—"
"I do what I want," Greg argues. He's being childish and he knows it but fuck it, fuck it, fuck it because Mycroft's being an annoying dick and Greg absolutely hates it because he doesn't have the right to be one. So what if they're in a pre-bond? Doesn't mean they're together, doesn't mean Mycroft can tell him what he can and can't do. But Mycroft—he's been doing this whole protective thing more than usual and it's annoying the hell out of Greg because he doesn't know what it means. And Mycroft, fuck him, won't say.
Luke stares at the two of them. "I'm going to the living room," he announces. He whistles at Sherlock. "Hey, kiddo, come with me. I'll let you experiment on me or something."
"Don't want to."
"Go!" Greg and Mycroft yell at the same time. Sherlock pouts at them but follows Luke out.
"Okay," Greg says once the two are gone. "I'm a fuck-up, alright? But don't you dare take it out on Luke or any of my friends because it's my choice to be a fuck-up. Yeah, I smoked and I drank and while the hangover's getting to me, I liked smoking and drinking."
"You're thirteen," Mycroft hisses. "Only thirteen, Greg. You're far too young to do those things."
"Can you not do that?" Greg growls. "Can you just act your real age? For once? So what are you saying? That when I'm older then it's perfectly acceptable to smoke and drink and snog random people?"
Mycroft narrows his eyes at him. "You didn't snog anyone," he mutters.
"Well, I wouldn't know. I was drunk."
Mycroft just glares at him. "You didn't," he repeats.
"Look, I wouldn't know, alright? And why would you care?" Greg bites his lip. God, he sounds like a dick. Can't help it, though. Mycroft's being a dick as well and this headache…Where the hell is that Ibuprofen?
Mycroft shrugs. "I honestly don't know if I should," he says and god, he manages to make that sound awful. It makes Greg shut up, makes him feel every bit like the idiot teenager Mycroft's implying that he is. He glares at the floor and tries hard not to show a negative reaction. He's not going to cry in front of Mycroft. He's not going to cry in front of anybody because he doesn't feel like it.
"I apologise," Mycroft says, making Greg look up. "That was a mean thing to say."
"Can't change your opinion, can I?" Greg mutters.
"How's your head?"
"Splendid."
"Here. Drink this."
"Ta." Greg swallows the pill dry, ignoring the disapproving look he gets from Mycroft. "Shut up."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were going to," Greg says. He still feels odd and a bit angry and it's all because of Mycroft. At least, that's something Greg's sure of. But then Mycroft's wrapping an arm around his waist, hugging him and it's so strange that Greg nearly chokes the pill back out of his stomach. Mycroft doesn't hug people, not counting Sherlock. Greg's hugged him before but it's always him who initiates it, never the other way around.
"I truly am sorry," Mycroft tells him. He's taller than Greg and taller than Luke so that Greg's pressed against his collar bone and oh god, Mycroft's so warm. If Mycroft doesn't pull away, Greg's going to do or say something very embarrassing, very fast—
"MYCROFT, I'M HUNGRY!" Sherlock yells, loud enough to wake the dead and start an army.
"I told you to eat your breakfast," Mycroft snaps, letting go of Greg. It makes Greg feel weird and he wants Mycroft to hug him again which he shouldn't want because admitting that is just going to add to his embarrassment.
"I WASN'T HUNGRY THEN—I'M HUNGRY NOW!"
"Sherlock, stop being such a brat!"
"I'M TELLING MUMMY YOU'RE NOT LOOKING AFTER ME!"
Mycroft mutters something under his breath which Greg doesn't catch. He pushes past him. Greg scratches his head and watches him leave. "Strange," he says to himself.
"Kiss him."
Greg rounds on Luke, wide-eyed. "What?" he yelps. "That's insane!"
"Why not? He fancies you, too."
Greg blushes. He looks past Luke to see if their grandmother has heard. She hasn't. She's too busy shouting at the telly. Greg punches Luke's arm anyway, just for the heck of it. "Shut up. He doesn't."
"Try it."
"It's not a fucking joke, Luke!"
Luke merely rolls his eyes. "Just try it. When your parents drop you off next week, go and kiss him."
"Luke—"
"He already knows you fancy him."
"Yeah, and look where it's gotten me."
"Didn't know you were a fucking coward, Lestrade."
"Shut up."
"He hugged you. You said he did and you said that he doesn't do that. Why's that?"
"He was apologising."
"Words exist for a reason, my friend. Besides, why was he so mad about us partying? If he really didn't give a fuck about you, he wouldn't have gone off the bend."
Greg doesn't say anything. It's the wrong move because Luke grins like a shark. "AHA!" he shouts triumphantly.
"Shut up, Rochewell. I mean it!"
"My baby's all grown up," Luke teases, kissing him on the cheek. "So proud."
"I hate you," Greg mumbles. "I fucking hate you, you know that right?"
"And I know that you love Mycroft Holmes."
Greg doesn't care if their grandmother sees. He kicks Luke off the sofa, smiling to himself even when Gran starts yelling at the two of them.
A/N: The poem Luke recites is from Pablo Neruda's collection of love sonnets. This part is my favorite.