Mycroft moaned deep in his chest and dropped his head forwards. His hands gripped tight to the edge of the kitchen counter, back bowed under Greg's hands. Greg chuckled and leaned in to kiss the back of his neck. "Keep making noises like that and I might be ready to go again in a week."
"So soon?" Mycroft laughed, but it was cut off by another groan when Greg dug his thumb into a particularly tight knot. "We didn't have anything planned today, did we?"
"Not a thing. Schedule cleared for the hangover." He swept his hands down Mycroft's back and wrapped his arms around his waist, pressing himself up against him. "I hadn't made arrangements for my hip or your back." The microwave beeped and he gave it a baleful glare. There were two heat pads in there which he'd be very grateful for, but they were still a symptom of something. Age, mostly, and foolish decisions. There were two empty wine bottles next to the microwave, which was one more than they should drink in a night and one fewer than they had drunk.
No wonder his head felt like there was a grunge rave happening in there.
Mycroft turned in his arms to face him, and only winced a little when he leaned back against the counter. His eyes were soft and fond, a rueful smile crinkling their corners. "I cannot say that you make me feel like a teenager again, because I'm not sure I ever did before… We were very foolish last night, you realise."
"Oh definitely. I ache in places I didn’t know I had." He pulled Mycroft closer with a grin. "Worth it, though."
"I'm in love. And anyway, I never claimed to be the brains of this operation." Mycroft was trying not to look amused, but not very successfully. "You're supposed to be the sensible one, and I'm pretty sure the second bottle of wine was your idea."
Mycroft raised one eyebrow. "And the third?" When Greg kissed him, he smiled into it, and didn't bother trying to hide it when he pulled back. "You're a public menace and a very bad influence, I'll have you know. And one I am incredibly grateful for."
"Even with your bad back and my knackered hip?"
"Even so." He got that innocent expression again. "Speaking of which, I'd probably better take the teas through."
Greg laughed. "You're an absolute sod. Go on, you queue up one of your history shows for me to sleep through, I'll bring the heat pads and the Deep Heat."
They had an ergonomic reclining sofa and orthopaedic mattress, neither of which was designed for what they’d done on them the night before. Greg’s hip ached in the winter where he’d landed on it hard two years back, or if they got too inventive or strenuous. More than once he’d struggled to read the paper until he’d realised he’d put Mycroft’s reading glasses on instead of his own, and the smart TV recommended them history and nature documentaries before anything with a plot. Now he was doing it, he found, it was hard to understand why he’d ever worried about growing old. He declined his seat, rested his bare feet next to Mycroft’s socked ones on the coffee table, and accepted the mug of honey and ginger tea he was offered. The secret was to grow old with someone who made you feel like a teenager again.