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Harry Hart has been properly horrified by the behavior of his fellow man many, many times in his life.
That’s not to say he’s a snob; far from it. But over the years he’s gone from constantly astonished by the depths to which humanity will sink, to mostly inured to the everyday excess of vice, of avarice, of violence, of cruelty. He’s done everything in his power and more to combat those excesses, holds himself and his behavior to the highest standards, and therefore he sleeps the sleep of the righteous and just.
However, he does occasionally allow himself to be annoyed by the little things. And he’s never seen such a display of poor manners as in the man opposite him at table: sweaty, filthy, blood-speckled and eating with such speed he may not taste his food at all. It’s astonishing. And horrifying.
“That was fantastic, Harry, thanks,” Eggsy says, pushing away from the table with a small belch. “I think I’ve been proper hungry for like, I don’t know, a couple of days. Those K-bars are worse than any ration I got in the Marines, I swear they are.” Eggsy drains the wine from his glass and thumps it back on the table.
Harry is aware that his mouth is probably hanging open in shock. He closes it. “You just bolted that 1986 Chateau Lafite like it was pound-a-pint night at the local,” Harry complains. “And you could have at least showered before you left Belarus.”
“Drink’s drink,” Eggsy says with a wink, and pushes back his chair to stand. “And besides, miss Sunday lunch while it’s still hot? Not on your life. No, don’t get up,” he says, as Harry absently rubs the scar on his temple, sighs, and rises to go find a bath towel. “I know where all the stuff is. Just sit easy and I’ll do the washing up when I’m done, all right?” Eggsy turns and takes the stairs two at a time, and in a moment Harry can hear the rush of the water start up in the shower.
Eggsy may be a Kingsman through sheer force of will and luck of timing, but someone would have to finish that boy’s training. Harry assumes it will very likely fall to him, as his original sponsor. Indeed, Harry thinks, warming to the idea, who would be more suitable? Harry drains his glass and sits pondering which deliciously evil challenge he could set next, until Eggsy bounds down the stairs, wet hair still dripping a bit down his naked shoulders, sweatpants slung low and dimples in his lower back looking like something Harry had the right to touch.
The sudden flash of lust Harry feels is a bit disconcerting, but he pushes it away. It will be absolutely fine. If he can’t trust himself to hold to protocol, who could he trust?
………………………………………………………………………………………………….
They’d been having Sunday lunch together for about six or eight weeks now, off and on. Mostly on, as there was quite a bit to do at home to clean up Valentine’s mess and set things back to rights. Eggsy and Roxy—well, Galahad and Lancelot—had been in the UK for the most part, providing intervention against those trying to step into the power vacuum the death of the Prime Minister and half of Parliament had left behind. Harry himself had been plenty busy, too, sorting through the former Arthur’s files, figuring out what had been done, what needed doing—and what, unfortunately, needed undoing.
But Sundays, now. Sundays are held sacred if at all possible, for both of them. Harry cooks, and Eggsy comes to eat and do the washing up, and they sit and have a drink after pudding and chat for oh, an hour or so. They talk about work, or Eggsy teases Harry about cricket, or sometimes Harry tells stories of his time as Galahad before Eggsy, or before Eggsy’s father, even. Sometimes they talk longer than an hour, ending up a bit worse for wear from a bottle of scotch, and Eggsy will stay the night, warm and safe and tucked up in Harry’s spare room bed.
Harry cherishes those days. He’s not ever had a family of his own, and he admits that it gets lonely, sometimes. And Eggsy is smart, and charming, and humorous, and as different as they are, he seems to get Harry, somehow, all the way through. It’s a strange sensation, but not an unpleasant one, to find someone so suited to be his friend in this 24-year-old smart-mouthed street-wise kid.
However, if the years have taught him anything, it’s to be completely unsurprised at the strange and sometimes wonderful turns life can take.
…………………………………………………………..
“We’re going to start simply,” Harry says, pulling the cork on yet another bottle the following Sunday evening. He’s got four lined up now: cabernet sauvignon, ruby port, cognac, and brandy. He’s fairly sure Eggsy has at least tasted all of them before, but he needs to be so familiar that he can drink them all without betraying a hint of surprise. “These are all wine and wine derivatives—distilled or fortified, or aged. Well, cognac is a type of brandy, but a very specific type, from the St. Emillion in France—are you getting this?”
Eggsy rolls his eyes and leans against the center island in Harry’s kitchen. “Yeah, I’ve got it. Posh French wine, sure.”
Harry huffs. “Honestly, Eggsy, Could you at least make a minimal effort? I ought to take these out of your pay. This is the last bottle of that Chateau Lafite I have .”
Eggsy grins, that bright, blinding grin of his that always leaves Harry just a bit discomfited. “Yeah, well, you teaching me about wine’s worth it, innit? I promise I’ll cherish every drop.” He winks and snatches a glass from the worktop—the port— and drains it quickly. His face turns a bit pink and he splutters. “Fuckin’ hell, that was like syrup. What was that one?”
Harry laughs at the dismayed look on his face. “Ruby port, you uncultured child.” Eggsy sticks his tongue out at Harry, but he ignores it and keeps going. “Sweet and rich, fortified with brandy. Only produced in Portugal under strict regulation. And imagine you having exactly that reaction if a mark had requested you share a twenty-five hundred pound bottle of vintage port so old the neck had to be cracked off to open it.”
“Hey, I’ll have you know I have a good fuckin’ poker face.”
“You really don’t.”
“Enough to fake it.”
“Shut up and drink,” Harry says, and pushes the glass of brandy toward him. Harry takes his own and holds it up to allow the light to play across the cut crystal and the rich amber liquid within. “To growth, Galahad.”
Eggsy smirks and clinks his glass to Harry’s. “To getting piss drunk on posh liquor, Arthur,” he says, and takes a mouthful, barely suppressing a grimace. “See? Poker face,” he chokes out.
Harry just laughs, and realises it’s nothing but joy in Eggsy’s presence, really. Pure pleasure, laughter, and affection. He finds that suspiciously comfortable.
He pours him another.
…………………………………………………………………
“How long you been doing this? Bein’ a Kingsman, I mean,” Eggsy says from where he sits on the floor, his head cushioned on the seat of the sofa. Harry takes a breath to clear his mind before he speaks. They’re through the bottle of wine, half the cognac, and most of the port, and he’s well and truly pissed, even if he’s trying not to show it. Eggsy gave up caring a few drinks back.
“Thirty years, or thereabouts,” Harry says. “Time’s really starting to slip away.” Harry contemplates the young, so very young head on the cushion next to him. His head is swimming a bit, but he can’t help but notice the way the lamplight gleams on Eggsy’s smooth hair, his unlined forehead. The way his eyes blink up at Harry, even now so hungry for any scrap of attention Harry would give him.
This is probably the worst situation he could be in, to be honest. Because Eggsy’s big blue eyes (Christ, so beautifully cerulean, like the sea on a summer’s day and Harry wants to drown in them) are starting to be Harry’s biggest weakness, and all he has to do is turn them on and ask Harry for just about anything. Please, Harry, lunch on Sunday? was the first, and now here they are, two months in, and Harry’s starting to wonder if he should, or even could, reestablish some boundaries.
He is technically Eggsy’s superior, now. It could be a situation rife with implications of favoritism, of nepotism, of any and all sorts of perception of corruption. And perception is reality, after all.
“So, how many people have you trained up? Besides me an’ my dad, I guess.” Eggsy takes another sip of the port. After his initial shock he’s warmed to it, and now he keeps sneaking refills as soon as his glass is barely half-empty. At least he has good, if expensive, taste.
Harry realises he’s stalling when Eggsy’s forehead crinkles.
“I’ve put forward six candidates for consideration.”
“Six? That’s…a lot of dead Kingsmen, innit?”
“There are more of us than you realise, Eggsy, but yes. This isn’t an easy job, or a safe one.”
“Tell me about it.” Eggsy says, and glances down into his glass, frowning. It happens like this sometimes—something small and seemingly insignificant is said and suddenly it’s three months back, and Harry is walking off of a plane at HQ into Eggsy’s enthusiastic, if crushing, embrace. Eggsy’d forgiven Harry so easily, so naturally, but occasionally there’s a catch in his expression that makes Harry wonder.
“Anyrate,” Eggsy says, shaking off the sudden awkward silence, “I plan on hanging on as long as possible. Make you sick of me. Bring you tea an’ shit when you’re old and in a home.”
Harry shudders. “Kill me first, I beg of you.”
“Nah,” Eggsy laughs. “You an’ Merlin, playin’ checkers, arguing over who gets first pick on special biscuit day…”
“Quiet, you insolent pup.” Harry shoves Eggsy in the shoulder, tipping him sideways and making him laugh a bit drunkenly and hold his glass out to keep it from spilling. “I’ll still be able to kick your arse.”
“Drinkin’ Bovril—“ Eggsy says, barely getting the words out between gasps of laughter.
“Fuck off, you,” Harry says, and finally cracks, laughing along as he admires Eggsy’s bright, beautiful smile. “Merlin would kill me at checkers, and he actually likes Bovril.”
“No.”
“Oh, yes. Spent an entire mission in Argentina drinking it from a thermos.” Harry chuckles at the memory, and tips his head back against the sofa cushions for a moment, reveling in the peaceful, relaxed feeling of being profoundly drunk. He turns his head toward Eggsy, and when he opens his eyes, he finds Eggsy is watching him, expression open and happy. Their laughter dies away slowly, Harry watching Eggsy’s eyes darken and shift, the silence growing heavy and thick with tension.
It’s a moment, full and ripe and ready for picking.
If he were a lesser man, if he had fewer scruples. If he had fewer morals. If he had fewer responsibilities.
But he doesn’t.
…………………………………………………………..
“Oh, absolutely not,” Merlin says the next day, as he watches recruits take on the assault course. “You told me in no uncertain terms that Sundays were sacrosanct unless there was an emergency. Oi! That wall’s for climbing over, you lot, not going around.” Merlin pokes at his tablet and frowns. “Fucking pile of useless—“
“Just … send me to…I don’t know. I’ll take that arms deal in Tanzania.”
“I fucking see you, Dwyer!” Merlin shouts. “Tripping your teammates isn’t going to get you a better time.” Merlin shakes his head and marks down the poor hapless recruit as Harry shifts from foot to foot, trying to maintain his composure. “Look, stop dancing around like that, you’re pissing me off. Just give me a day and I’ll find you something.”
“Yes, thank you,” Harry says, and turns to leave.
“What do I tell Galahad?” Merlin says, and when Harry turns back, Merlin’s got an odd look on his face, like he’s trying to keep from laughing.
“What you always tell him. That it’s need-to-know only.”
“Your funeral,” Merlin snarks, and shakes his head. Harry gives him a sharp look, but Merlin is already walking away, a spring in his step.
……………………………………………………………………………….
Harry spends the intervening week holed up in his office, holed up in his house, or generally being a complete bastard and just plain hiding in Merlin’s private office, the existence of which is one of the more closely guarded Kingsman secrets.
What he most emphatically does not do is allow himself to be alone, anywhere, with Eggsy. It’s fortunate that Eggsy is sent off to Wales on Monday afternoon; it’s only slightly unfortunate that he’s so good at his job he’s back in the office Tuesday morning with a swagger in his step and a smirk on his face at a job well and most efficiently done.
“Good work,” Harry trusts himself to say. He is, after all, Eggsy’s boss. He’s allowed to say that. Nothing improper in it.
“Oh, man, you should have seen it, Ha—Arthur, I mean, it was so sick, me and six blokes in an underground carpark. It was like a Bourne movie for real.” Eggsy beams, and Harry wants to sling an arm around Eggsy’s shoulders with the easy affection of a friend. But what niggles at his conscience, what keeps him hiding in Merlin’s office, is that he more and more wants to press a kiss to Eggsy’s forehead with the pleased relief of a worried lover. It’s a desire so powerful he’s already got one hand on Eggsy’s shoulder without even being fully conscious of the movement. He can’t, not here, not ever, and throws himself into complete reverse when Eggsy bites his lip and steps closer.
“Harry, I—“ Eggsy starts.
“I’m glad you’re back safe,” Harry says, then turns on his heel and flees.
……………………………………………………………………………
In retrospect, he really should have taken the arms deal in Tanzania.
Harry ducks behind a low wall separating the garden from the wide flagstone terrace that runs along the back of Margo Connor’s house—Margo, who was supposedly a chemist with a side line as an explosives manufacturer, not a crack shot with a Sig Sauer p226, Jesus Christ. Harry flinches when a piece of the wall explodes next to his head, showering him with chips of stone.
“You fucking owe me, Merlin, I swear to God you should have known she was armed.” Harry fires off two shots and dives for cover behind an ugly statue of a swan. “How did this happen? Simple—get into the house, find the lab, get out. Not get shot at over the soup course!”
“If you’d stop your damn gob for a moment, sir, extraction is heading your way. And just so you’re fully aware of the circumstances of your return, Eggsy was down here looking for you earlier today, it being Sunday and all.”
Harry groans. “A bit busy at the moment to discuss it,” he says, and uses the cover of the moonless night to slip along the ground at a crouch until he can hide behind a large tree partway across the lawn. He can see Margo peeking round a column, the edge of the muzzle of her gun glimmering in the lights from the house. He doesn’t want to kill her, if he can avoid it. “One hundred twenty five meters north-northwest of the gate. ETA 2 minutes, provided she doesn’t blow my damn head off in that time.” Harry knows he’s going to regret that remark later, but he can’t help his temper on occasions when things aren’t going to plan.
Margo must spot him, because there’s the report of a shot and the sharp hiss of a bullet passing by him much too close for comfort. That’s it—he’s far enough away that the suit will absorb most of the impact from any bullets, so he fires off three quick shots and makes a run for it. He leaps the gate and dives into the black SUV waiting at the corner, panting as he lies sprawled across the back seat.
“Back to the airport, quick as you can,” Harry says, as he sits up, holsters his pistol, and smoothes down his lapels.
“Yes, sir,” the driver says, and Harry’s head snaps up at the sarcastic tone. His eyes connect with the driver’s in the rearview mirror. Big, bright blue-green eyes under the brim of the official Kingsman livery hat.
Oh hell.
It’s Eggsy.
“So, you decided getting shot at by some bird in Austria was better than a Sunday roast with me, eh? Well, no accounting for a man’s taste, my mum says.” Eggsy lifts an eyebrow, and Harry freezes.
Oh bloody buggering hell.
“You’re welcome!” Merlin says, his voice dry and amused in Harry’s ear.
………………………………………………………………………………………
Harry absolutely, positively, does not slink behind Eggsy’s stiff posture and lifted chin into the Kingsman jet parked on the tarmac, and he absolutely does not drop into a seat in the corner of the long, plush sofa running around one side of the cabin. Eggsy unbuttons the livery jacket and drops it and the hat on one of the seats, and sits down at the other end of the bench. He runs a hand through his hair and leaves it completely disheveled, and opens up the top button of his collar.
Harry really needs a drink.
“What’s with the hide and seek, then?” Eggsy demands. Harry swallows. Well, not one for tactful niceties, is Eggsy. Straightforward and to the point, always.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Harry says, and the lie is as smooth and practiced as any he’s ever told. Unfortunately, he’s trying to lie to a liar, and Eggsy isn’t having it.
“Oh, like fuck you don’t. I used to see you around, you know? Even if we didn’t have time for Sunday, I’d see you like, five times a day, seemed like. Then all of a sudden you were nowhere.”
“Well, I’ve been busy, you know. I don’t clear my schedule with you, nor do I—“
“Bullshit. So, I just imagined you hiding in Merlin’s private office every time I was at HQ, is that it?”
“Oh, that interfering bastard,” Harry growls. “You shouldn’t even be aware that office exists—” Harry stops and watches the smirk growing on Eggsy’s face. The realisation he just walked himself into a trap sinks into his stomach. Goddammit.
Harry says nothing more as the plane starts to taxi down the runway and lifts into the sky.
………………………………………………………
“You know,” Eggsy starts, as soon as the plane levels off and they unbuckle their seat belts, “if you really didn’t want me around, all you had to do was say. I mean, I’m not gonna force myself into your company or nothin’.” Eggsy looks down, fiddling with his lighter. Probably not the best habit to have, it being a grenade and all.
Harry huffs a sigh. “No, Eggsy. I should have anticipated you’d think that. The reality of the situation is that I’m your boss, now. Your superior. It’s important that I not take advantage of that position, or show favoritism, or make you think you must…tolerate my company in order to maintain your job. That’s just not appropriate.”
“But you wouldn’t—“
“Well, you’d think not, but by virtue of my position, I hold quite a lot of power over your life, Eggsy. It would be … improper, to have such a … close friendship. At the very least.”
“So there is something,” Eggsy says, and a smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth.
He looks so lovely. Well, time to face the music, you old fool. Harry rubs a hand over his face and takes a deep breath. “Of course there’s something. How can there not be, with you being, well, so endearingly yourself?”
Eggsy blushes, then, going pink up to the tips of his ears, and Harry feels his fingers itch to reach out and trace along one delicate earlobe, draw a line across his jaw to touch his full lips. Eggsy must see the desire in his eyes, because he carefully scoots along the seat until he’s turned toward Harry, one leg curled under him and one foot on the floor. He’s near enough Harry can smell his cologne, a spicy, tawny scent that makes Harry want to bury his nose in Eggsy’s throat and breathe him in.
Oh god, he should move. But they’re in this jet for the next two hours, and there are very limited locations to go to—and nowhere to hide, because even the small room with bunked beds in the back doesn’t lock. He’s leaning in toward Eggsy before he can help it, only a dim, intimate space between them, and the warmth of Eggsy’s skin is crawling up Harry’s spine and making him tense.
“I thought I’d gone round the bend, the other week,” Eggsy says quietly. “I just…I saw you looking at me, and I thought—“
“Yes,” Harry says, and places one hand over Eggsy’s where it rests on his knee, and that’s it, it’s as if that one single touch knocks down the dominoes of his resolve, and all of the self-restraint he’d been so keen on ten minutes ago rattles and falls. He gently leans forward until their lips touch, softly, so softly, waiting for second thoughts to come roaring back to claim him. Eggsy whimpers slightly, opens his mouth the tiniest fraction and presses harder. Harry can feel the hair on the back of his neck rise at the sound, heartbeat picking up speed as he breathes and falls into the kiss he never thought he’d allow himself. Eggsy’s hand is needy on Harry’s thigh, clutching the fabric in grasping fingers, and it inches higher as Harry cups his jaw and peppers tiny kisses across Eggsy’s bottom lip.
“This doesn’t change what I said,” Harry reminds him, even as Eggsy kneels up to get more leverage to kiss Harry harder, passion written in his darkened eyes and shaking hands. “I don’t know how we can get this to work.”
“I’ll sort it,” Eggsy says, and Harry smiles at the determination in his voice. “Or we will. I don’t care. We need each other, and that’s all there is to it. Now, stop panickin’ and kiss me. If things just can’t work, if we just get to do this the once, it better be good, right?”
He’s right. Harry knows he’s right, and for once in his life he just stops thinking and lets his heart lead him. Harry surges forward and meets Eggsy halfway, both of them kneeling on the bench seat and wrapped around each other. The jet tilts for a moment as they make a turn, and they both have to put a foot down to balance.
“Let’s move to the back,” Eggsy suggests, with a wink. “I think we could use a bit more privacy, yeah?”
Harry shivers, going hot and cold in a moment. It’s rarely like this for him, this level of desire, potent and heady and new. But everything about Eggsy is new—a space in his home, lunch on Sundays, laughter and joy and fear and exhilaration. So he takes Eggsy’s hand and pulls him along to the bunk room, uses his personal code to disable the comms, and closes the curtain behind them.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..
It’s dim with the curtain and all of the lights off, but there’s enough illumination for Harry to watch in silent wonder as Eggsy slowly unbuttons his shirt, revealing his broad and well-muscled chest. Harry runs a flat palm over his pectorals, delighting in the way Eggsy’s breath catches and his eyes close, and his hands go still.
“You gorgeous creature,” Harry whispers, and kisses his shoulder, then circles round and presses kisses to the top of Eggsy’s spine. This is what he wants—if they’re going to do this, even if it’s just the once, he’s going to pour every ounce of worship into it. He drags his lips along the back of Eggsy’s shoulder and nestles his nose into the fine hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re so exquisitely perfect.” Eggsy shivers in the cool air when Harry slides his hands around Eggsy’s hips, letting his palms lay across his stomach as he continues to kiss and nibble at Eggsy’s neck. Eggsy sighs and drops his head to the side to allow Harry better access. He revels in Eggsy’s unexpected supplication to his touch, a compliance that surges under his skin and leaves him burning.
Eggsy’s skin is warm and soft, little freckles and tiny moles a pleasing texture under Harry’s tongue. He worries tiny nips of skin between his teeth until they bloom, a possessive sign that glows in Harry’s chest with dark satisfaction. Eggsy gasps and grinds back a little at that, to Harry’s delight, arse pressing into Harry’s erection, which is still trapped behind his trousers and starting to protest a bit.
“We should get undressed,” Harry murmurs, and steps back to do just that. He’s a bit smug as Eggsy watches him, predatory and hungry, as he takes off his shirt and tie and kicks off his Oxfords.
“Come on, then,” Eggsy says, impatiently ripping at his own trouser buttons. “Let’s have the rest of it.”
Harry chuckles but complies, dropping his trousers as gracefully as he can manage. He notes that a bruise is starting to form on his shin from his bang about Margo’s garden, but other than that, he’s fairly pleased with what he has to offer, especially at his age.
Eggsy, however, looks a bit gobsmacked: still in his pants, one leg out of his trousers and one in.
“Jesus, Harry,” he croaks. “That’s …that’s …”
“Yes?”
“That’s fucking beautiful, is what that is. Just gimme a second and—“ Eggsy scrambles to get his pants off and falls on his knees at Harry’s feet, mouth open and tongue out.
Oh Jesus, it’s every fantasy come to life at once: a warm and willing Eggsy Unwin, practically begging to suck his cock? Denying himself is only going to get harder once he’s had it. How can he possibly go back to being alone, knowing how it feels to be with him like this?
Eggsy must sense his hesitation, because he puts a comforting hand on Harry’s thigh. “I know what I said, but I’m not gonna give you up without a fight, Harry. I swear. Now, you gonna let me suck you or what?”
Before Harry can move Eggsy darts forward and takes Harry’s cock into his mouth. Harry almost loses his balance, the sharp bite of pleasure buckling his knees. “The mouth on you,” he says, affection and warmth and, above all, hope curling in his chest. “How can I possibly refuse such an elegant argument?”
Eggsy hums and bobs around his mouthful, one hand wrapped around the base and the other gently playing with Harry’s balls. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly he can feel an orgasm starting to curl at the base of his spine, so he draws back until the head of his cock is just inside Eggsy’s mouth.
He makes the mistake of looking down.
God, Eggsy looks gorgeous, eyes big and lust-dark and mouth stretched obscenely around Harry’s thick length. He’s playing a bit with Harry’s foreskin, now, tonguing it, and then pulling off and dragging the head across his lips.
“Problem?” he says.
“I think you should lie on the bed,” Harry says, “before I end up coming on your face. As delightful as that would be.”
“Oooh, Mr. Hart. You do like it a bit dirty, don’t you,” Eggsy teases, but climbs up and lies down anyway. Harry rolls his eyes and ignores the implication dripping from that statement, swings a leg over Eggsy’s head and settles until he can feels his cock bump Eggsy’s chin and he can nuzzle into the crease of Eggsy’s groin.
“Fuck, sixty-nine on the first date?” Eggsy groans. “I knew I’d found a good one.”
“A gentleman always reciprocates. Or, at least, provides equal and appreciative treatment.” Harry breathes in and takes a good view of Eggsy’s cock: uncut, a bit on the stout side, and with a broadly flared head that Harry’s going to feel the first time they fuck.
If they ever fuck. Christ, the idea of it makes him shiver.
But until then, he contents himself with taking a long lick up the topside of Eggsy’s cock as he presses his thumb against the frenulum and rubs little circles there. He can hear Eggsy gasp, and suddenly wet heat is encircling his own cock as Eggsy sucks him down and encourages Harry to thrust with hands wrapped around his arse.
It takes a minute, but they figure out a rhythm that lets Harry go completely mindless, a tight circle of pleasure given and received. He gently slides a fingertip into Eggsy’s arse and Eggsy jolts as if he’s been shocked, his body stuttering in its rhythm and his cock delving so deep into Harry’s throat it almost makes Harry choke. As it is, Harry’s having a hard time focusing, trying to breathe and tease with his fingers while Eggsy is doing delightful things with his own mouth, but as he feels his own body start to tense Eggsy’s hands clamp around Harry’s thighs and he comes in long, shivery pulses across Harry’s tongue.
Harry swallows as quickly as he can, takes Eggsy’s cock out of his mouth, and then allows the feeling of Eggsy’s talented lips and tongue drag him over the edge of his own orgasm, his body shaking with the strain of not simply shoving down Eggsy’s throat and staying there. Pleasure twists him inside out, melts him and leaves him buzzing at the same time. He nuzzles the hollow of Eggsy’s hip and breathes, smelling warm sweat and come and a hint of starch from his shirt. The feelings he’s developed for Eggsy have their hooks in deep, now, and he can feel them pulling him in.
“Oh, fuck,” Eggsy sighs. Harry rolls off of him, a bit dazed and wobbly in the knees, and climbs right side up and into the warm spot he just left. Eggsy scoots over so his back is to the wall and Harry settles in so they’re facing each other in the tiny space.
“You’re so lovely,” Harry says, and draws the back of his fingers down Eggsy’s face. “And this is what I want. But I still don’t know what we’re going to do when we get back in, oh, an hour.”
“We’ll ask Merlin,” Eggsy says, and his eyes are bright with mischief. “After all, it’s because of him I’m even here. He’s got something up his sleeve, I know he does. And he may have said a few words along the lines of I’m s’posed to ignore whatever you say, ‘because no one’s gonna say shit about it.’ Or something like that.”
“What?” Harry’s incredulous. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
Eggsy does blush a little at that. “Because—well. I wanted to know if this was a thing you’d fight for, even if it was sort of maybe frowned on by the rules. Sunday roast and wine lessons and, you know—” Eggsy leans forward and kisses Harry’s chin, then his cheek, “—apparently really great fucking and all the rest. If you’d want me more than you wanted to follow some stupid idea you had about morals.”
Harry wants to be indignant—tested, at his age? Proving his loyalty? But then he remembers how few people in Eggsy’s life have given him that loyalty above all else. Which is laughable, because Eggsy, this brave, funny, charismatic man, is worth everything Harry can give him, regardless of rules or regulations or anything else. Harry’s heart had apparently decided that fact as soon as he got out of the hospital and invited Eggsy to his house. It’s freeing, to realise that.
Harry presses forward and kisses Eggsy soundly, thoroughly. “It’s still Sunday, my darling. Come to mine and I’ll do a pasta. With wine. Then we’ll make a wreck of my bed and drive to the shop together on Monday.”
Eggsy beams and tackles Harry to the bunk, snogging him breathless. He’ll take that as a yes.