Forgetting the Past

        "Alright. I'm lost.  Again.  Help me out, here, uh?"  Greg barged through the closed bedroom door behind me, the thud of it slamming against the wall making me flinch. I hadn’t been expecting him to follow me in. Not quite so soon. I held onto the bedpost, catching my breath. 
        "We need to talk," I bellowed, my voice jagged and raw, "not... not that."  
        Greg’s firm hand landed between my shoulder blades.  "Then, let's talk.  I'm sorry.  I initiated that.  You're right.  I shouldn't have done."  His voice was calm and quiet as he stepped around to face me.  "I missed you."
        "You missed sex," I countered.
        "I missed sex with you." 
        A sharp, guttural growl escaped my throat before I could stop it. "That's it, then?  Is that really all this is about?  If it is, I'd much prefer you torture someone else instead."  My knees buckled and I found relief perching on the edge of the bed.
        Greg sat down beside me, slowly, taking my hand in his.  "You know better than that, Mycroft."  
        "Stop calling me that!" The words came out harsher than I'd intended.
        "Calling you what?"  
        "Stop calling me Mycroft!"  I stopped shouting to expound, "You always call me Myc."
        "You hate it when people call you Myc."
        "I hate it when other people call me Myc."  I felt my free hand rub absently against the corduroy of my trousers. 
        From my periphery I could see him grin as he said, "Myc, let's start over.  Come back downstairs with me.  We'll eat.  We'll talk.  You obviously had a certain order of events in mind and I threw that out of kilter."  He shifted, making the space between us smaller, his knee brushing against mine.
        I wasn't really sure any order of events would prove to mend anything.  "I shouldn't have behaved in such a manner."
        "It was barely rough.  You didn't do a thing wrong."  He leaned toward me, nearly touching my ear with his lips.  "It was good."  
        "It was wrong!" I exploded yet again, immediately rising to my feet. 
        He stood beside me, his presence steady like an anchor. "Let’s try again," he said, his voice low, smooth as velvet.  He linked his arm with mine, pulling me back toward him.

 

***

 

        Despite my protest, we inevitably found ourselves once more in the sitting room, positioned before the fire. Greg had taken the food to the kitchen for reheating.  My eyes were fixated on the flames as I tried desperately to recall the words I had intended to speak before the evening had veered down a different path.
        "You know I'll eat anything," Greg began to speak before he even exited the kitchen door.  "You didn't need to send Anthea to the chippy."  
        "Why do you assume I didn't go myself?" I asked as he sat on the pillow next to me, handing me a plate.  
        "Have you ever been to a chip shop?"  He attempted to disguise the chuckle in his voice as he smiled.
        "Of course, I have."
        "When you were how old?" he asked with a leading tone.
        "You put it on real plates," I observed, ignoring his question and examining the dish in my hand.
        "You can't heat polystyrene." His voice caught as the bite of fish he'd taken scalded his hard palette.  
        "I'm sorry, Greg."  
        His eyes locked with mine as I placed my dinner on the hearth.  "I know.  As far as I'm concerned we said everything that needed to be said when we were in hospital."  
        I lost his eyes as he looked down to grab a handful of chips.  "Did we?"
        "Myc, I didn't want to spend time with you tonight because I thought we needed to rehash the past two months.  Things have just been very tense 'round here.  I thought we needed some bit of normalcy."
        "I've not been the one avoiding a normal routine."  
        "You're food is going to go cold again," he said, still chewing as he nodded toward my plate.  "I wasn't avoiding anything.  I just think I've learned something through all this."
        "Pray tell."
        "I need to remind myself once in a while that I have freedom - my own identity."  
        "Greg, I have never once done anything to curtail your identity."  I reached to touch his forearm.  "Not intentionally."  
        "Not intentionally.  Let's remember, though, you are Mycroft Holmes.  I spend too many days with your brother and every night with you.  That's a lot of - well - Holmes."  He paused, looking at my food yet again.  "Please eat, Myc. I know you haven't eaten all day."
        Perhaps he was learning something from me.  "How do you know that?"
        "Deep fried, grease-soaked food?  You wouldn't consider eating a bite of this fish and chips without compensating for it.  You starved yourself all day just in case you actually had to eat this."  He stuffed chips into his mouth as he continued.  "Which is ridiculous."
        "Even if what you suggest is accurate, which I won't confirm, it is not in any way ridiculous.  It's a perfectly reasonable and healthy balance."  I reached out and broke a small bit of fish from the fillet and took it in my mouth.  
        "Fad diets and inconsistent fasts aren't healthy."  He watched as I slowly chewed the bit of fish I'd taken.  "Just eat.  You have nothing to worry about.  You're perfect."
        My stomach dropped as I heard his words.  I was again transported to our first night together.  I stood and began pacing before the fire.  
        I watched Greg devour the last three chips on his plate before he brushed his hands on his trousers and stood to meet me.  He stopped me mid-step, clutching both my biceps and drilling his gaze into mine.  "What?  What did I say?"
        I shuffled in place a bit, hesitant to allow more drama to ensue.  "You're perfect.  You said that to me once before.  The first night we were together.  During."
        His arms wrapped around my torso as he kissed my jawline.  "I remember.  And I meant it."
        I pulled myself from his embrace, walking to sit on the chaise across the room.  "Greg, you were my fantasy."
        He approached me, arms folded at his chest, waiting for me to continue.
        "But, I - there's nothing I could ever do or be that would be different or novel for you.  I've always known that."
        Before the last few words landed in the air, he'd sat next to me, taking my face in his hands.  "It's been years.  We've been together for years.  When will you finally let it sink into your brilliant skull that I love you?"
        "That has nothing to do with-"
        "It does, though," he interrupted.  "Did you ever stop to think for one second of this charade of yours that maybe my fantasy was actually falling in love with someone?"  
        "I didn't."  I reached up, clasping his hands and pulling them away from my face.  
        As our intertwined fingers landed on his knee, he rubbed my skin with his thumb. "Well, it should've done."  He raised my hand to kiss it.  "We're not so different, Mycroft.  That's why we get on so well.  Usually.  We want the same things."
        "I want what my parents have."  I'd never admitted that before to anyone.
        "We both want what your parents have."  Greg squeezed my hand tighter.  "And we have it.  If you'll let us."
        "What do you want me to do?  What do you want me to say?  I failed, Greg.  I can't travel in time.  I can't go back to the day we met and tell you I know everything."
        "I don't want you to do or say anything. I just want to stop talking about the whole bloody thing."  He stood and walked back toward the fire.  "It's over.  It's in the past.  My old life is in the past.  Your decisions, poor as they were, are in the past.  It has nothing to do with this moment.  It has nothing to do with anything that happens moving forward."
        I straightened my vest as I stood and joined him.  "Forgive and forget?" I asked.
        "Forgive and pretermit," he corrected.  
        "Pretermit," I repeated with a smile.  It wasn't a word he would normally use.  "Alright.  Agreed.  However...."
        "Hmm?"
        "Do you plan to continue disappearing every morning before I wake and remaining absent until I'm nearly asleep?" In truth, that had been the only hurtful thing he'd really done.  
        Greg's dark eyes squinted as he ran a single index finger in "s" shapes across my chest.  "Do you plan to continue wearing soft, touchable vests?"  
        It was as if, with that simple comment, he'd taken every bit of chaos from the past months and locked it away securely.  The air in the room suddenly felt lighter.  His shoulders appeared more relaxed than they had moments prior.  My entire body breathed a sigh of relief.  "I plan to wear whatever you'd like me to wear, Detective Inspector."  
        His finger moved from my vest to the belt loop of my trousers.  "You didn't like my suit much, did you?"  He stepped back and motioned to the torn shirt still laying on the floor near the sofa.  
        "Greg, you're beautiful - "
        "Not what I asked," he interrupted me again, reaching out and taking my hand.  "Come on, you."  He pulled my arm as he began walking toward the staircase.
        "Where are we going?"
        "Upstairs.  So, you can show me what you'd rather have me wear."  He turned and winked, but didn't slow his pace as we approached the first step.  

 

 

***

 

        Greg removed his best, tailored trousers, and stood before me clad in only his pants.  "Dress me, Mr. Holmes."  
        "Greg, this is silly.  It's nonsense.  You know I don't care what you wear."
        "We need a bit of nonsense," he insisted.  "Off you pop."  He nodded toward the wardrobe in the corner of the room.  
        I sighed as I opened a drawer to fetch his softest hooded jumper and joggers.  
        "No," he spat abruptly as I turned toward him with the garments.  "I was your fantasy, you said.  Dress me like your fantasy."  
        "For fuck's sake, Greg, I am."  I tossed the clothes atop the bed.  
        He wrapped his arms around my waist.  "Really?"
        "Really."  I said, rolling my eyes.
        "This is what you like?"  He slid the joggers on speedily and picked up the jumper.  
        "That is what you like.  So, yes.  It's what I like."  I waited for his head to escape out the top of the hoodie and snatched his lips with mine.  "I like you," I explained, releasing the kiss.  
        He ignored my sincere attempt at sentiment and turned to flip the light off, leaving the room illuminated only by the dusky glow outside the window.  "I just wanted you to have the most enjoyable view possible."  
        "View of what?"  
        He reached out, unfastening my trousers, deliberately savoring every inch of corduroy as he pushed them down to my ankles along with my pants.  "Of this," he said in his deepest voice, as he kneeled and took my entire length into his mouth.  
        My head fell forward, as though my neck could no longer hold it and my gaze landed on him.  I twirled a finger in his hair for a few seconds before pushing my hips slightly forward.  The twirl turned into a fisted clutch as I felt the back of his throat against my prick.  His eyes looked up at me as his tongue incessantly massaged one single spot, causing my thighs to begin quivering.  Despite the evening's earlier events, it still felt as though it had been forever since he'd touched me.  Things wouldn't last long like this.  
        "Greg."  I placed my hand on his shoulder to signal a need to stop.  
        He pulled back and stood up.  "Are you okay?"
        I didn't answer.  Instead I leaned down, bit his neck and asked, "where are your handcuffs?"
        Without a word, he left the room, returning seconds later from the guest room with his handcuffs.  He tossed the cuffs onto the bed as I expeditiously removed both my vest and shirt.  Greg took my hips in his hands and spun my body to face the bedpost, pressing me into it.  I heard his joggers slide across the wooden floor.  His dry hands clenched my wrists, suddenly holding them above my head. His hot, hard cock slid against my skin as his chest became flush with my back.  I winced, only fleetingly, as his teeth gently grazed my shoulder. 
        He rocked our bodies against the bedpost, running his nose through the hair at the nape of my neck.  "How do you want to be cuffed, Mr. Holmes?"
        I turned around, kissing him before I moved to lay my long frame flat cross the bed, face down, arms hanging over the edge.  
        Greg followed me and quickly secured my wrists to the base of the bedframe.  The click of the cuffs made my cock leak.  Without a word, and with his hooded jumper still on, he circled around the bed.  
        At a surprisingly gentle tap of his hand, I slid forward enough to kneel on the mattress.  He started with two lubed fingers, but wasn't wasting time.  Barely a minute passed before he was throbbing inside me.  A kaleidoscope of colours invaded my vision and I suddenly realised how incorrectly I'd worded my comments earlier that evening.  I had said, "you were my fantasy."  I should have said, "you are my fantasy."  That had never changed.  It had never ceased.  Not even for the briefest moment.