A/N: Gah, I'm sorry it took so long. This story's already up to ten in archive of our own. I just have a lot of trouble accessing this site for some reason.

Luke has just crammed a jam-smeared slice of bread in his mouth when the door slams open. The sound makes him jump, the bread flying from his mouth and landing on the floor with a loud splat. "Fuck," he swears, turning around to shoot Greg a glare. "That was my fucking snack."

Greg merely stares at him, ashen-faced. He looks shit scared and normally, Luke would comfort him. But the thing is, he hasn't eaten anything for ten hours and his stomach is telling him that he should be furious because his food is currently swimming in bacteria. "The hell is wrong with you?" he asks sharply, watching as his cousin takes a seat on the counter and buries his face in his hands. "Seriously, mate, you look like the walking dead."

"I did it," Greg mumbles.

"What you talkin' about?" Luke bends down to pick up the bread. It's not too dirty so he stuffs it back inside his mouth. He knows that the five-second rule is bull but it's not as if he hasn't eaten anything worse. There was that three-day gone sandwich he'd eaten and he didn't get sick, then.

Greg lifts his head. "Mycroft," he says in a shaky voice that makes Luke's stomach twinge. He narrows his eyes. Fucking Mycroft, he thinks, clenching his fists at the thought of him. If he hurt Greg…

"What did he do? He hurt you?" he demands. "I'll fucking kill him."

That seems to bring Greg back to reality. "No, you idiot," he snaps. "I did it, alright? That thing you told me to do. I—I—" Greg falters then groans and hides his face in his hands. His face, Luke notes, has turned the same colour as a ripe tomato. Luke cocks his head to one side and stares at him.

Oh.

Oh.

Huh.

Okay, gross.

"So," he says, awkwardly. "How was it?"

"Stupid," Greg mutters. He's lying on the counter now, his legs dangling over the edge and his head dangerously close to a container full of casserole. Luke hastily moves it aside. "Quick. I ran."

"Um. Okay." Luke has no idea how to approach this. He's never had the desire to kiss anyone before. He has, of course, kissed people, but only for fun. He's kissed Chuck and he's kissed Greg. Well, it's more of slobbering on the person's mouth than kissing but you can consider that, right? Okay, so kissing Greg was just dog-slobbering. Kissing Chuck, though…Luke frowns. He was drunk and Chuck was drunk so it was kissing but it didn't mean anything. It's certainly not the kind of kiss that should be followed by a serious conversation. There's casual kissing and there's kissing with meaning. At least, this is what Luke thinks.

"What did Mycroft say?"

"He didn't say anything, alright?" Greg removes his hands and looks at him. He looks pathetic and Luke would laugh but Greg's suffering seems sincere and Luke's not that cruel. He clambers onto the counter and rolls onto his stomach, draping one arm over Greg. The other boy groans and rolls to his side to drape his arm over Luke's back. They probably look stupid and it should be weird but it's something they've never grown out of. It's an Alpha/Omega relative thing, the comfort that comes from the physical contact. Or it's just them. Luke's not sure.

"I'm too big for the counter," Luke mumbles after three seconds. He rolls to his back and gently kicks Greg's legs. "Fuck Mycroft if he didn't like it. Find someone else."

"I can't believe I did that." Greg stares at the ceiling morosely. "I'm such an idiot."

Luke snorts. "When we were ten, we were both caught stuffing frogs in Jenna Kingsley's locker. I was the only one who got detention because of the whole teachers-love-Greg-because-of-Mycroft thing. And you, you idiot—you wanted to be with me. You took off your trousers and just tore down the halls singing Sex Pistols on the top of your lungs. Crazy. I can't believe that kissing Mycroft makes you more embarrassed than running around in just your pants."

"My legs are very sexy," Greg mumbles, eyes closed. "They're not an embarrassment."

"Sweetheart, with legs like that, I would have killed myself long ago."

Greg sighs. "He just…He stood there and he didn't say anything so I ran and—and—I don't know. What am I supposed to say to him?"

"I dunno. Discuss baby names."

Greg pinches his ear. "Bastard, I'm serious."

"Well, I wouldn't know either. Don't ask me, mate." Luke rolls away, wincing when Greg's fingers accidentally tug his earring. "Maybe you should talk to Mum. Or watch The Revenge of Maria Ramona. Same situation as yours. See, Josephine's conflicted over Emilio and Andres Jr. because…" He trails off when he sees Greg staring at him, one eyebrow raised disbelievingly. "It's surprisingly good," he defends. "You should try it."

"Not happening."

Greg closes his eyes once more and leans against him so that his head is resting on Luke's shoulder. Luke closes his eyes as well. This is one of those you-really-shouldn't-talk times that he always messes up when he's not with Greg. Luke hates these times because he doesn't know how to cope and when to break the silence. It's not awkward but it's far too serious and he doesn't like being serious because it's messy and weird and makes him feel old.

"What is it with you two and the kitchen counter?"

Luke's father eyes them suspiciously from the threshold. "Hi, Dad," Luke greets. Greg slips his hand in his and squeezes his fingers, hard. Don't you dare tell him.

Luke squeezes back. Won't. Promise.

His dad sighs. "Honestly, Lucas, your mother cooks there," he says. There's no trace of anger in his voice which is good. His dad's alright until his temper gets to him and he doesn't want Greg to see him receive another lecture about proper behaviour.

"It's nice and cold and it smells like butter," Luke points out, wrinkling his nose when the scratchy beard of his father makes contact with his forehead. Well, this is kissing as well, he thinks, but a different kind. Kind of like the dog-slobbering with Greg, only with finesse. Greg grins at him, the first real one today.

You smoke all the time and you still get kisses from your daddy.

Luke kicks him. As if you don't.

"Now it smells like two teenage boys who have no idea what a shower is." A hand passes through his hair, through Greg's. "When was the last time you two had a decent bath? Your hair's practically pouring grease."

Luke grunts and rolls away, landing on his feet with a small thud. Greg jumps off the counter. "You'll be staying for dinner, Greg?" Luke's father asks.

"Maybe," Greg says.

Outside, Greg tosses him a pack. Luke sticks the cigarette in his mouth but doesn't light it until they get to the park. It's not as if their parents don't know that they smoke. It's not exactly an easy thing to hide, especially since they often stink of it. Fortunately, they seem to have the same philosophy as Brandon so it's okay, as long as they do it far, far away from home. "I was young once," Greg's mother said, which was the only time she'd addressed the issue, "and you wouldn't believe half the things I'd done." What those things were, Luke doesn't remember because he tuned her does know that that's not something you want to hear from an authority figure.

"Maybe I could die of lung cancer," Greg says, revealing to Luke that he's not over it and won't be for a long time.

"Too bad," Luke answers. "Our dads have been smoking for years and no one's dead yet."

"My ego."

Luke scowls at him. "You're so pathetic, Greg." He doesn't know why he feels a bit angry, but he does know that it has something to do with Greg's attitude. He's just too different today. It's selfish but Luke doesn't want him to be different. He needs Greg to act like himself and forget about Mycroft for once.

Greg doesn't reply but he frowns a little. "Okay," he says, dropping his cigarette to the ground and crushing it with the heel of his shoe. There's a group of kids playing football nearby. Luke narrows his eyes at them, recognising one as part of that group of berks from school.

Greg smirks and Luke feels himself grin.

"Let's mess with them."

"You've been avoiding me."

Greg bites his tongue, barely managing to stifle the embarrassing squeak his vocal chords were threatening to let out into the world. Mycroft gives him that same expressionless stare that should irk Greg but somehow just manages to look, well—

Okay, he is not going to go there.

He stares at the battered Rolling Stone in his hands and wonders if Mycroft will leave if Greg shows disinterest long enough. It's not going to work though, and Greg knows it, even before Mycroft takes a seat next to him. "What are you doing?" he hisses, glaring at Mycroft over a picture of Jimmy Page. "You're not supposed to be here."

Mycroft blinks. He looks over his shoulder then at his surroundings with the same calm expression. "There's no rule against going here," he reminds Greg.

"Yeah, but…" Greg trails off. There are school rules, of course, and when you're in the main building, the part which is free to both Omegas and Alphas, the rules are stricter. But then there are rules, the ones that are unwritten and the ones that only the students know because it's only applicable to them. Most of them are stupid but that's school for you. The library, for example, is where Mycroft should be because that's where the smart kids go. The backstage in the theatre is where Greg's group hangs out, and, well, Mycroft just doesn't fit here with the smokers and troublemakers, and for the older guys, the rich burnouts.

Greg looks around nervously. He doesn't know what they'll do if they find Mycroft here. Not much, he's sure. But the staring and name-calling…it's not nice. He knows; he's experienced it when he made the mistake of following Luke to the library to research on a topic (in other words, rip pages from books instead of photocopying them). Mycroft's friends aren't exactly saints, either.

"It's lunchtime," Mycroft tells him. "No one's coming."

Greg freezes. Having someone else here would be bad, but being stuck here alone with Mycroft isn't ideal, either. "Uh, alright," Greg says. He tries to focus on the magazine in his hands but it's hard to read when someone's staring at you intently. Greg closes it and sets it on his lap before he turns to Mycroft. There's no avoiding this. "So…"

Only, Mycroft's not even looking at him. He's glaring at the collar of his shirt as if it's personally offended him. Greg looks down but finds no fault, except for the few wrinkles and the loose tie. "Mustard," Mycroft says when he finally notices Greg's confused expression. "You've got mustard on your collar."

"Oh." Greg waits but Mycroft doesn't stop staring at the spot on his shirt. "Okay, fine, I'll put on my coat. Can you stop glaring at my shirt, please? So weird."

Mycroft smiles at him and Greg grins. That is, until Mycroft says, "About that kiss—"

Greg groans, hides his face in his hands. He can feel himself burning up and he hates it because it's just not like him to be this embarrassed. Years of detention and lectures from his parents should have left him jaded. "Sorry, I shouldn't have done that. I feel awful about it because you specifically told me that you're not interested. Can we just forget about it?"

"Why would I want to do that?"

Greg removes his hands.

"I was thinking," Mycroft says as he shifts in his seat. He looks uncomfortable and it's so strange to see him acting like this that Greg nearly tunes out the rest of Mycroft's sentence. "If you weren't busy—"

"Are you asking me out?" Greg blurts out before Mycroft can even finish. Mycroft glares at him but he doesn't give Greg another lecture about not interrupting people when they talk.

"Yes."

Greg looks away. "I, uh, have football practice."

Mycroft blinks. "Well, when you're free."

Greg stares at him, looks away again. "So, we're really going to do this, then?" He laughs nervously. "You know…this. And it's not just because youfeel that you have to, right?"

"I want to," Mycroft says. "Very much."

Greg fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve. He wonders if he should kiss Mycroft. He's not sure if the situation calls for one. It's not like he doesn't know how to flirt because he's done it; it's a requirement when you're doing your best to get out of trouble. It's just that, when it comes to going beyond flirting, he's quite at a loss.

Mycroft seems to sense his discomfort because he moves away a bit. "I'll see you later," he says, already back to the Mycroft Greg 's familiar with. It's amazing how he can suddenly act like nothing happened. For a second, Greg thinks of following him. But he rejects the idea as soon as it appeared and just sits there, magazine in hand, and waits for Luke.

"You have a what?"

"It's not…We're just going to hang out more," Greg mumbles, refusing to meet Luke's eyes. "It's not a date." At least, Mycroft didn't say it was. Greg's not sure he wants it to be one because people who go on dates are those boring, lovesick couples in school and he's definitely not boring. Nor are he and Mycroft a couple. Well, not yet? One kiss doesn't make you like those people, right? And just because there's this thing between them, doesn't mean that they're going to be like those guys.

Right?

"He asked you out," Luke says slowly, that confused puppy expression on his face. Greg wants to tell him that there is lettuce stuck between his teeth but can't bring himself to do so because the situation just doesn't seem to call for it. Also, they just had dinner and there was nothing green in their food.

"Isn't that considered a date?"

Greg glares at him. "You wouldn't know," he says. Luke doesn't take any offense, fortunately, because Greg has been kicked and punched enough for today. He does secretly wish that Luke knew because he doesn't know how to do this. But Luke's never had a crush on someone, has never even been a teensy-bit interested in anything with a pulse. In the romantic sense of course. Chuck's no help, either. He's too busy staring down the end of his cigarette to pay attention to anyone. Greg's all alone here and he doesn't like it.

"It's a date," Luke goads, poking a finger between Greg's ribs. Greg moves back. "It is."

"He hasn't even asked me out!" Greg retorts, pushing Luke away. "I mean, he did, but he didn't say anything specific. He just told me maybe. When I'm free."

"You're always free—oh wait." Luke pauses. "Do we have detention this week?"

Greg thinks about it. They've caused a lot of problems for the Year 8 students but he's positive that Petey, another one of his football mates, covered for them. "Not that I know of," Greg admits.

Luke grins a Cheshire cat's smile, one that fills Greg with a deep sense of foreboding. "That means you can go on your DAAAAAAAATE," Luke sing-songs.

"Shut your trap." Really, Greg thinks. One minute Luke's retching at the thought of him and Mycroft, the next he's acting like the freaking fairy godmother. Greg has no idea if Luke really wants him to be with My, or if he just likes seeing Greg uncomfortable. The latter, Greg decides when Luke doesn't stop teasing him.

"Who has a date?"

Greg's foot connects with Luke's thigh, making the other boy yelp and double over. "No one," Greg says at the same time Luke, possibly as an act of revenge, yells, "Greg has one!"

"You have a date?" Greg's father narrows his eyes. "With whom?"

"Can you not use that word? Please, I hate it," Greg says at the same time Luke says, "He and Mycroft are going out now."

"Fucking hate you, Rochewell," Greg murmurs under his breath, fighting the urge to slam a fist in his cousin's face. Luke merely blows him a kiss before he jumps to his feet and runs out of the living room, leaving Greg alone to face his father.

He's not in trouble, Greg knows, but he doesn't like the look on his father's face because he knows exactly what it means. It's true that his father was the one who helped arrange his pre-bond with Mycroft. And while his parents approve of Mycroft, love him, even, his father's instinct to protect refuses to stop, pre-bond or no pre-bond. It's ironic how his father allows him to drink and smoke and swear like a sailor but will grow livid the moment someone looks at Greg with interest. Hilarious, according to Luke, but not to Greg who has received many talks on the many ways his father can decapitate a young Alpha with his bare hands.

Even Mycroft, the son of the man his father is working for. Even Mycroft isn't exempt from the creative usage of a baseball bat (shoe, hammer, rolling pin, hell, even a bloody paper clip). It's the curse of being an only child, and an Omega one at that. Greg wonders what his life would be like if his father were an Alpha instead of a Beta. God, he thinks, unable to suppress a shudder, I would have been stashed inside a bubble as soon as I was born.

His father shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the stern expression on his face not fading for even one second. "And where is Mycroft taking you?" he demands.

"Nowhere. I'm serious, Dad. He just…you know." Greg looks down at his hands, feeling a blush creep to his face. "Made things official, I guess."

"And how exactly did Mycroft make things official?"

"Dad!" Greg yells. He's not going to talk to his father about that. He's also not going to tell his father that he was the one who'd made the first move. He'd be placed under house arrest for one thing. "Fucking hell, can't you just pretend that you didn't hear anything?"

"No swearing in your mother's house, Gregory," his father warns. "Remember the rules."

Greg huffs. "Yeah, I remember them. Sorry."

His father nods. "Fine, I won't bother you about it, but when you do go out with him, I'm setting a curfew."

"You mean, I can stay outside until midnight with Luke doing god-knows-what but I have a curfew when I go out with Mycroft? Mycroft who doesn't have a single bad habit?" Greg says, laughing. "That's just messed up."

His father looks at him seriously and slowly, Greg's laughter dies down. "Are you going to accept that one rule or do you need another lecture about what hormones can do to people your age?"

He hates this.

He's aware that he shouldn't hate it because it's Mycroft he's with. But he's a teenage boy with a teenage boy's taste buds and all this French/Italian/whatever food is hard to swallow. He's been chewing on this tiny piece of steak for the past eight seconds. Mycroft must have noticed already. He's giving Greg an odd look that makes him want to slide down the chair and hide underneath the table, at least until this bloody posh restaurant burns to the ground.

Stupid, he should have said something when Mycroft asked him if he was fine with the arrangement. He's never had the patience for things like this, for anything formal, rather. Still, he does his best to hide it. It's not exactly polite to make his discomfort visible, especially when Mycroft's paying for everything.

Mycroft stares at him then sighs and calls the waiter. "We're going," he says. It takes a moment for Greg's mind to understand, but when he finally catches up, all he can do is blink and ask, "What? Why?"

"You're not enjoying yourself."

Was I that obvious? Greg wonders if Mycroft is offended. Then again, he can't exactly force himself to enjoy something, right? He tries a smile. "What gave it away?" he teases.

"You keep shifting in your seat. And you still have that steak in your mouth."

"I do not." Greg tries to swallow subtly. Of course, it doesn't work. Nothing is subtle to Mycroft. He stares at his barely-touched food then at Mycroft's plate. "Um, shouldn't we finish eating?"

"Are you going to eat that?"

Greg frowns at the…the thing swimming in white sauce before him. "No," he admits.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Seriously? You're asking me?"

"Yes."

"Anywhere?"

"Wherever you want."

Greg frowns and thinks.

"You know what? Let's just walk around."

Greg waits for the hacking cough, but it doesn't arrive. Rather, he finds himself watching the trail of smoke rise from the end of the cigarette. Mycroft turns his head and exhales so that the smoke doesn't reach Greg's face. "You smoke," Greg says, gobsmacked. "You never said."

Mycroft shrugs. "Only sometimes," he admits, "When things get a tad bit out of hand. It helps get rid of stress but I'm afraid I just don't have an addictive personality."

"And I do?" Greg jokes, plucking the cigarette out of Mycroft's fingers. It feels strange, smoking with Mycroft. It's weird. It's not exactly uncomfortable but it feels a bit like smoking in front of a teacher or a parent. It's like he's smoking for the first time, unsure and a bit scared of the consequences of his actions.

Mycroft smiles at him, that nearly imperceptible smile that tells people Mycroft Holmes is just as human as the rest of the masses. Well, only if you can see it. "You smoke, you drink—"

"Hey, I rarely drink," Greg protests, "Drunk isn't a good look on me."

"You consume a surprising quantity of caffeine per day. It's a miracle that you haven't gone into cardiac arrest."

"Okay, guilty as charged. That last bit." He drops the cigarette to the ground. "Anymore of my negative traits?"

The smile turns into a smirk. It's similar to Sherlock's which is strange since they don't look alike at all. It's one of those things that tell they're related to each other: that smirk, the deducing thing, the way they fold their hands in front of them when they're thinking.

"You rarely keep your mouth shut," Mycroft answers. Greg mock-glares at him.

"Mean."

"It's rather charming," Mycroft says in a way that makes Greg blushes furiously. One moment, he and Mycroft act like they're just friends and the next, someone says something that tells Greg that they aren't anymore, that they're more than that. He's not comfortable with the idea yet even though he wants it. He bites his lip and wonders what he should do because Mycroft is staring at him intently. It's never bothered him before, but now it just makes him too aware of his face and his teeth and his smell. He wonders if he reeks of sweat and tries to think of a way to check without making it too obvious.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "What?" Greg starts to say but he stops when Mycroft cups the back of his head and presses his mouth against his.

Kissing, Greg finds is weird. You can't breathe and it's wet and your face itches afterwards. As a child, he often wondered why people did it, why people would deliberately exchange their saliva and germs and cut off their oxygen supply. Kissing Mycroft doesn't change it. It's still wet and weird and awkward. But somehow, despite these things, Greg still enjoys it.

Mycroft pulls away. "That wasn't very gentlemanly of me," Mycroft says, deadpan. Greg snorts.

"You ruined the moment!" Greg yells, punching him lightly on the shoulder.

"I wasn't aware we were having 'a moment'."

"Yeah, right."

"Should I make it up to you?"

Greg rolls his eyes. If someone told him a year ago that he'd be in front of his house, flirting with Mycroft, he would have either burst a vital organ laughing hysterically, or dry-heaving in a corner. "You're a sap, Mycroft Holmes," Greg mutters. He lets Mycroft kiss him again anyway.

It's a mistake, a big one. The front door swings open, making them both jump away. Fuck, Greg thinks when he sees his father at the threshold, arms crossed over his chest and looking quite annoyed. "That's it," Greg's father mutters, shooting Mycroft a glare. "It's past your curfew. Greg, get inside."

Mycroft stands up, clears his throat, then offers a hand for his father to shake. "I should go home; my brother's expecting me," he says, dropping his hand to his side when Greg's father refuses to move. Greg tries a glare at his father but it goes ignored. "It was nice seeing you, Mr Lestrade."

Greg's father merely grunts. For a moment, Mycroft stands there. He recovers quickly and, to what Greg thinks must raise his father's irritation to a whole new level, kisses Greg's cheek chastely.

"You really, really didn't have to scare him off," Greg says once Mycroft has left. "We weren't doing anything wrong."

Another grunt. But then his father's face softens. "It's hard watching you grow up," he admits. "You're still my little boy after all—"

"Oh god, Dad, stop."

Mycroft hears rather than sees Sherlock walk into his room. He keeps his eyes closed and listens to Sherlock move around, listens to him rummage through his things. The bed dips and Mycroft holds his breath and does his best to keep still when Sherlock sniffs his face.

"You smoked," Sherlock says accusingly. "Father isn't home."

"With Greg," Mycroft says. He opens his eyes and lets them adjust in the darkness, his brother's face slowly coming into focus. It's mostly blank but Mycroft knows better; he can read him with his eyes closed. The corners of his mouth are turned down slightly, his stance tense. Worried, Mycroft deduces.

"With Greg," Mycroft repeats. "Not because of Greg."

"I'm not stupid," Sherlock mutters indignantly.

He lifts himself, enough so that he can press his lips against Sherlock's forehead. It's not exactly a kiss but he lets himself linger, ignoring Sherlock's protests.

"I know. Go back to sleep."