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The words shrivel and die between them.
Harry's chest hitches on an indrawn breath. The contours of his face are cast dramatically in the fiery hues of the street at night, highlighting the wrinkle in his forehead and the soft slope of his chin and the silvery pink of his scar.
He's beautiful, and Eggsy loves him.
“I miss you.” The confession falls. It lands heavily onto the pavement, cracking into the asphalt. “You're alive, you're right in fucking front of me, and I still miss you.”