Greg proposed to Mycroft on the small beach in Port Ellen. Mycroft had persuaded him that Islay—a small Scottish island known primarily for its smoky Scotch—counted in both the ‘Island Getaway’ and ‘Beach Holiday’ categories, and was therefore suitable for their long weekend away from London. Greg had secretly been hoping for Spain.
Still, the setting was hopelessly romantic and sunnier than either of them had expected, and the Scotch was fantastic. They’d rented one of the old white-painted stone houses right on the edge of the beach, perfect for late-evening walks along the tiny strip of sand after everyone else had gone home.
The sun was setting, tinting everything with a diffuse glow that made it seem like they were walking through a Vermeer painting. Greg stopped and turned back to face it, tipping his chin up and closing his eyes against the bright light, drinking it in with a contented smile. Mycroft stood next to him, lightly resting his hand on the small of Greg’s back.
“You’re like a cat,” Mycroft said, “always finding the sunny spot. You’d rather be in Spain, wouldn’t you?” The words were matter-of-fact, not bitter.
“I’d rather be wherever you are.”
He turned to face Mycroft, blinking to adjust to the change in brightness. If that wasn’t the perfect opening, he wasn’t sure what was. He didn’t know why he was so nervous about this; they’d lived together for six years now. Perhaps it was the fear that Mycroft would say no.
Two years ago, Mycroft had brought up the idea of a civil partnership, and Greg had instinctively—and very apologetically—declined. Mycroft had been justifiably hurt, taking it as a personal rejection, and Greg had slept on the sofa for a week. It had taken Greg a few days to figure out why he’d reacted that way: he’d already screwed up one marriage, and he was afraid making it legal would somehow doom this relationship as well. In the end, they decided it didn’t make sense if both of them weren’t comfortable with it, and the issue faded away. Neither of them had brought it up since.
By the time the same-sex marriage legislation went through, Greg had started to rethink things. Six years now—the happiest ones of his life. He hadn’t ruined their relationship yet, and he saw his earlier refusal for what it was: unfounded, superstitious fear.
He put his hand in his pocket and fished out a tiny box containing a small, gold signet ring bearing Mycroft’s initials. He opened it and took one of Mycroft’s hands in his own. “I love you, My. Will you marry me?”
Mycroft’s initial look of surprise morphed into a brilliant smile. “Of course I will,” he said joyfully, pulling him into a hug and kissing him in a very spontaneous, uncharacteristic public display of affection. He pulled back, still beaming. “You’re sure? I mean, with the legal part?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” Greg said, hugging him tightly. “You mean everything to me.” He slid the ring onto the little finger of Mycroft’s left hand.
“So do you. I love you.” Mycroft ran his fingers over the smooth gold and blinked away tears. “It’s perfect, thank you.”
“I’m glad.”
Beaming, they linked hands and walked down the beach in silence, taking in the glorious sunset.
“Do you want a big fancy wedding, or should we elope?” Mycroft said, after a while.
“It’s up to you, but I’m sort of partial to ‘dramatic spectacle’.”
Mycroft grinned. “If it means seeing you in a bow-tie, I’d be amenable to that.”
“Obviously we can work all that stuff out later.”
“Mm,” Mycroft said, kissing him again. “I don’t care if it’s just the two of us and a piece of paper or some ridiculous ‘do’ with fancy hats, as long as I end up with you at the end of it. But I do have two suggestions…”
“Yes?”
“I think we should take our honeymoon in Spain.”
Greg chuckled. “And?”
“I think for the sanity of everyone involved, we shouldn’t have a best man.”
~~~~~~
Notes: Written to celebrate the first day of legal same-sex marriages in England and Wales: March 29th, 2014. (And tumblr’s “Silver Fox Saturday: Well Groomed” Rupert Graves event)
Links: AO3, fanfiction.net
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