#today's portion provided by france v belgium

[hastalux]

World Cup Part 4

Part One Part Two Part Three

Greg makes a choice, in the morning. He will be wearing his France jersey. All day. And his lucky pants. He’s been casting looks at Mycroft for hours, daring him to do something about it.

Mycroft hasn’t said a thing about it yet. Hasn't seemed like he’s even noticed Greg has it on. 

It’s starting to make him a bit nervous.

He forgets once the match is on, of course. It’s close- he paces about the living room to work off the tension until finally, finally, there’s a goal. Great, excellent. Now they just have to hang on- and they do! 

Greg flies about the living room. God, he wants a France vs. England final. How fun would that be. Make some bets with the cousins- maybe for who hosts the next get-together... or wagers of nice wine and whiskey....

He’s already into their family texting group when he hears the quiet clearing of a throat behind him. 

“Gregory.” 

Dammit. He really had to work on making that particular tone of voice not shoot him immediately into half an erection. “Yes, love?”

“I thought we discussed the presence of foreign influences on British soil?”

“Discussion is not quite the word I would use.” Greg smiles coyly. “If it helps, I’ll have my English kit on tomorrow.”

“Hmmm. All these dual allegiances, I just don’t know....” Mycroft leans back in his armchair, sipping a whiskey. Greg thought he’d rather given up on trying to get work done while Cup games were on.

Arching a brow, Greg strides over and perches on the arm of Myke’s chair, switching seamlessly into French. “Is the British Government worried about being penetrated by the might of France?” He drops down into Myke’s lap. “Or do you secretly enjoy it?”

“Are you declaring yourself to be a foreign agent, Gregory?”

“If I say yes, does one of us get to use the cuffs?”

He’s pleased the statement elicits an immediate thoughtful lick of the lower lip and a clear adjusting of position from Mycroft. “Hmmm. An interrogation?”

“A wager, perhaps. If England gets through tomorrow... France against England in the final... I can think of loads of things we could bet.” Greg watches Mycroft’s eyes blow a bit wider as he leans closer. “Of course, England has to win tomorrow... or I suppose in our contest, France will be the winner by default.” 

He lets his hand slip lower, into Mycroft’s trousers. “And I have lots of plans for my victory celebration.”

Mycroft lets out a little cough, flushing. “But you’ll be cheering for England tomorrow.”

“Of course, love. You know I love a fair fight.”

Greg winks, shamelessly wiggling his arse in Mycroft’s direction as he rises and trots off to raid their fridge. All’s fair, after all.

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