Fever

heartily

He took a deep breath.
"I'd like to ask you... would you... I would like to..."
He coughed and then burst out:
"Oh for fuck's sake, Mycroft, how do one ask someone as special as you for a date?!"
Mycroft swallowed.
"You... ..you want a date? With me?!"
Gregory nodded.
"Yes. So, Mycroft, can I ask you out? Or am I making a complete fool of myself...

Mycroft's eyes sparkled.
He hesitated for a moment, and finally he replied:
"No."
Greg lowered his eyes.
"Oh, then... ..I'm sorry. Then I must have completely misinterpreted your care. I'm sorry, so let's just forget..."
"Gregory!"
He could feel Mycroft's hand closing a bit tighter round his.
"You've got me wrong. No means no - you're not making a fool of yourself. I'd very much like a date with you."

Greg was beaming. His heart was pounding.
Now he had to laugh at himself.
"I'm acting like a schoolboy," he said. The corners of Mycroft's mouth twitched upwards as well.
"Well," Greg said, "I'm not quite ready to go out yet. But I'd like you to come back to mine tomorrow night and I'll cook for both of us. I can cook pretty good. I would be happy to do that for you."
He looked at Mycroft, almost pleading.
Mycroft nodded and smiled.
"I'd love to, Gregory. I'm looking forward to it."
It took a load off Greg's mind.

The next day was a Saturday.
Greg dressed warmly after breakfast and walked through the clear, cold winter air to the nearby weekly market to shop.
He wanted to make pasta. After all, everyone liked Italian food.
He decided to make Spaghetti alla Puttanesca, a dish simple enough to be prepared so that he couldn't do much wrong or spoil in the excitement; yet sophisticated enough to be suitable for a date. A simple leaf salad and a good wine to go with it; an espresso to finish, he thought, he still had to look for the espresso maker, but it must be buried somewhere in the depths of the kitchen cupboard.

So while he carefully selected the vegetables and tasted and then bought more ingredients at the Italian deli booth, he went over everything he needed. He would buy pasta in a small osteria nearby, it was handmade there and also sold outside the house. And Greg knew that it was the high quality of the individual ingredients that made the result delicious, especially with rather simple dishes.

Yes, he was looking forward to the evening.
He wanted it to be something special. His first official date with Mycroft Holmes.
Back home, he began searching for and found the espresso machine. Good.
It was only noon; he still had time. And he realised that he was trudging through the flat restlessly, like a child waiting for Father Christmas. The clock seemed to stop, time was slowly ticking away.

Finally it was time to start the preparations.
First he prepared the salad dressing and put it in the fridge.
Then he cut the salad, washed it, spun it and put it in a suitable bowl.
His hands worked safely and quickly and his thoughts were with his visitor.
He imagined preparing dinner for Mycroft, who came home from work... Home to him, Greg... the idea warmed his heart. He shook, once again, his head over himself.
But he could no longer deny it. He wanted more from the man than just casual friendship or anything.
He wanted something to develop from the dating and visiting. A partnership. A life together. He could tell he was turning red.

So let's get on with it. Slice tomatoes.
Chop capers and anchovies, also chili, olives and basil.
Crush the garlic.
Put the pot for the pasta on.
And now?
As the water began to boil, he decided to wait with the rest until Mycroft got there. ...so he could prepare everything to the point.

Just in time, as arranged, Mycroft rang the doorbell.
Greg opened it.
"Come in, I'm glad you're here."
"I'm pleased to be here too," said Mycroft and to Greg's greatest surprise, he leaned over and gave Greg a tender kiss on the lips.
He froze immediately and looked at Greg in a somewhat uncertain manner.
Mycroft Holmes, insecure. Greg thought he'd live to see this, and smiled.
"Oh, was that too quick?" Mycroft asked, making an apologetic gesture with his hand.
"No", said Greg. "It was just surprising. But lovely."
Then he smiled.
"I don't know if I'm still contagious."
Mycroft smiled too.
"My dear Gregory, if you'll nurse me then it will be worth it."
Now they both had to laugh. It was a happy, liberating laugh. It did them both good.

In the kitchen Mycroft sat down at the table and watched Gregory work.
He was fascinated by the nimble, dexterous, sure-footed movements of the other. You could see that Greg knew what he was doing, and since Mycroft knew so little about cooking, it was an interesting spectacle for him.
Finally, Greg cleaned the table, prepared the cutlery, plates and wine glasses, and the parmesan cheese with the little grater.
Then he placed the salad bowl in front of Mycroft and asked him to add the dressing on top and to mix it.
Mycroft rolled up his shirt sleeves and got to work.
He enjoyed it, and he was ready when Greg put the bowl of pasta mixed with sauce on the table as well and said cheerfully:
"Buon apetito, Signore Holmes."