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When he wakes in the middle of the night in the dark of the dorm room, Graeme can hear Harry breathing raggedly and thinks - strangely, sickly fascinated - he's crying. He squints across at Harry's bed without moving, just about able to make out the lump of his body under the blankets and the dark little blotch of his ridiculous dog who always curls himself into the shape of a cottage loaf to go to sleep.

"Harry?" he calls uncertainly - and Harry goes silent at once, holding his breath for a stretch of time that feels eternal before he lets it all out in a quiet, measured whoosh.

"I'm sorry. I thought you were asleep."

"I was. Are you alright?"

"Yes."

"Are you..."

"I'm sorry, I'll stop."

"You don't have to stop." He doesn't need to look when he reaches his hand down to stroke Ada's shaggy head - she always sleeps in the same spot on the floor, on the tartan bed next to his own. Even when she's dreaming she nudges her head into his palm, chasing the fuss he's been loading on her all afternoon and evening anyway. He knew the bullet wasn't real - for a spy, Merlin has some very obvious tells when he's not being entirely truthful and Graeme's been keeping a careful eye on those from the start - but the odd nagging sense of guilt lingers all the same. Somehow it seems worse for Harry. He came out of Arthur's office carrying his dog just as cool and nonchalant as ever, but turned white as soon as he got around a few corners and refused to talk to anyone all through dinner. If he didn't know it was a ruse and shot anyway - no wonder he's crying. He's besotted with that absurd little animal.

"I don't have to stop," Harry repeats carefully after a moment. "You don't mind?"

"Why on earth would I mind? It's been a strange day, unwind however you need to."

"Well, yes." Creaking bedsprings, rustling fabric, a disgruntled little noise from Mr Pickle as the movement disturbs him and he hops off Harry's bed and onto his own to go back to sleep. For a while there's silence, then Graeme glances over at Harry's bed again and finds Harry watching him curiously. "You honestly don't mind?"

"Of course not."

"To what extent don't you mind? I mean, are we talking this happens and we pretend it didn't? Or it happens tonight and then regularly henceforth depending on how awkward we feel in the morning?"

Graeme's fingers go still on Ada's ears. Something's not quite adding up here.

"Would you like to watch?" Harry asks hesitantly.

"Watch you cry?"

Silence again, and it's a moment too long to be comfortable as the mortifying reality finally makes itself apparent. Now his eyes are adjusting better to the dim light coming through the door windows from the hallway, Graeme can see the thin summer blanket draped over the ridge of Harry's arm and doing absolutely nothing to hide either the unmistakable shape of him mid-masturbation or the hasty movement as he jerks his hand away.

"I believe we have our wires crossed," Harry says politely. "I beg your pardon. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Graeme echoes, mumbling and horrified, though it's at his own excruciating idiocy rather than the fact of Harry touching himself under the covers when he thinks nobody else is awake. A dancing little thrill races down Graeme's spine and spreads goosebumps out over his arms, raising the little hairs there and making him want to rub them back down with his palm, except he's suddenly afraid to move. The thought is lodged in his head and won't be shaken away: is this the first time, or has he been doing this all along since we got here?

The fact of attraction to men is nothing new, and not something that bothers him any more. It's there to be examined and dealt with, not denied and squashed. There was the dim secret space between the bike sheds and the garden wall at school where the ground was strewn with cigarette packets and occasionally a discarded rain-wrecked magazine, soaked pages rippled and expanded and stuck together with probably far much more than water. He rescued a Playgirl from there once with Superman on the cover and some unknown hairy-chested pouting model draped across the centrefold in a way the photographer must have thought was alluring but was really just painfully hilarious, but beggars can't be choosers and so on and it was the first semi-erect dick he'd ever seen that wasn't attached to his own body. There were two boys at school - one fumbling furtive handjob in the changing rooms after a cricket victory, and one half-term full of lessons from a prefect that had nothing whatsoever to do with the curriculum - and an anonymous stranger he'd picked up in a shady club at university the month before being recruited to Kingsman. He's resigned to it, even learning to be happy with it.

This is different, and his heart is racing just as hard as it did when he was flung out of the plane without a parachute. Harry is a mouthy twerp with a lightning-fast mind and a devastating quip or insult for every occasion. He spends five times longer styling his ludicrous hair in the mirror than he does showering. He named his dog Mr Pickle specifically to annoy another candidate who said he preferred cats and kept loudly objecting any time he accidentally saw a puppy penis. He's vain and ridiculous and extravagantly argumentative - but he's as brave as the devil and twice as handsome, kind sometimes to the point of losing his lead in a race to help a fellow who tripped and scattered all the contents of his pack across the road, and openly despises Arthur in a way so faultlessly polite that nobody can call him on it even though everybody knows it's there. Despite being the last two rivals in a spectacular battle for a life-changing chance, they've become devoted friends.

It's not such a huge step, really, to say Harry's name into the darkness again.

"What, Gray?"

"You still don't have to stop."

"Oh," Harry says in a voice like he's just seen a magnificent firework explode overhead.

"And I would like to watch, if that's alright."

When Harry's bedside light clicks on, his cheeks are flushed a charming shade of pink. "I really did think you were asleep. I don't make a habit of this, I swear, I do have a morsel of self-control."

"Don't. I want to watch. If you meant it."

"Yes. Absolutely yes, I meant it." His embarrassment is morphing quickly to enthusiasm, just as Graeme's is, and he flings the covers off the side of his bed so he's spotlighted there on pristine sheets in his blue paisley pyjamas with his untamed hair sticking out all over the place in unruly fluffy curls. Graeme sits up in bed for a better view as Harry's scrambling to his knees and for a moment they just stay there motionless, staring at each other in baffled excitement until Harry finally moves. He reaches his hand up to the bare triangle of skin pointing down from his neck to mid-chest and nudges one of the lapels aside, stretching the fabric far enough that Graeme can see the shadowy line of his collarbone and the stroking slide of Harry's thumb tracing it before he moves further down to nimbly unfasten the remaining buttons.

"Take it off." His mouth feels dry but there's no way he's getting up to refill his water glass now and missing a single second of Harry unwrapping his flawless golden skin like a Christmas present. "And - and touch yourself. Your chest again. And your neck."

Harry sounds rapturous when he laughs, light and a touch breathy like Marilyn Monroe. "Yes, god, direct me." He pushes his shirt back over his shoulders, letting it drape loosely around his waist from his forearms. The cuffs are sliding down around his wrists, covering half the length of his exquisitely beautiful fingers when he starts trailing them up and down his stomach again, over the gentle bumps of the muscles there and the dark line of hair beneath his navel. He frees one hand from his sleeve and lays his palm flat on his chest, fingers against his collarbone, thumb caressing the hollow at his throat. "Like this?"

"Yes." He watches Harry flap his other arm impatiently until the second sleeve comes off and his shirt drops onto the heap of blankets on the floor, leaving him in nothing but his pyjama trousers and an expectant look as though he's waiting for instructions that Graeme's too flustered to give. "Higher. Touch your - I bet your pulse is racing. Is it? Can you feel it under your fingers?"

"Rattling like a drumroll," Harry says softly. He slides his thumb to the other side, braceleting his neck but not pressing. "Why the bloody hell did you think I was crying?"

"I don't know. I was still half-asleep and you were making those noises."

Harry releases his neck and places both hands on his thighs instead, kneeling there right in the centre of the bed and cocking his head to regard Graeme over the space between them. An appallingly pleased little smile flickers onto his mouth and then vanishes again when a strangled sort of sob leaves him on his next breath out. "That noise."

"Christ. Yes."

"I didn't want to disturb you. If you weren't here I'd be singing like Julie Andrews about it." His right hand is tracing jittery little circles on his thigh, edging closer to where the fabric is tented tight across his abandoned cock. "May I continue?"

"Please. Slowly."

"Slowly," Harry repeats with a delighted grin notching deep ridiculous dimples into his cheeks. "As you wish."

He doesn't take his trousers off, but gradually draws them down a bit at a time until the waistband is beneath his arse at the back but still hooked over his cock at the front, then he starts to gently stroke himself through the fabric, eyes flicking from Graeme to his own hand and back again as though checking his audience is still enthralled. "Are you," he starts, then trails off, apparently much more shy about words than actions. Are you doing it too?

"No."

"Why not? Don't like what you see?"

Harry stretches in place, lazy, smirking, teasing, and Graeme curls his fingers in the blanket to dissuade himself from ruining it by taking all of four seconds to get off in his hand. "It's fucking spectacular. I don't want any distractions."

"You are absolutely spoiling me and I'm quite sure I'm dreaming it," Harry murmurs, and at last he slips the front half of his waistband down and wraps his fingers around his cock. He sighs at the touch, not the desperate little stifled sob noise from before but something unshackled and hungry that's bordering on a throaty moan. "I don't believe this will take very long. Not with you looking at me like that."

"You like it. Being watched."

"Yes. It's never happened before." He brings his hand to his face and slowly swipes his tongue along the length of his palm and fingers, returning his damp hand to his cock and stroking with a bit more urgency now. Graeme couldn't look away now if something in the room caught fire: Harry's beautiful long fingers, the dark wet head of his cock thrusting through his fist, the glow of sweat clinging to every curve and plane of his naked skin. Harry's mouth, pink and parted, and his tongue darting out to swipe his lower lip every few seconds, or his teeth biting down around another of those glorious ostentatious moans.

"You look incredible," Graeme tells him suddenly. He wants to say it before Harry comes - wants to help him get there, if he can. He fumbles to his knees, crawling to the edge of his bed and clinging on tight to the bar there, feeling it slide in his sweaty grip. "Tell me what it feels like."

"Tell me what it looks like," Harry counters, breathing hard like he's been running, and Graeme can't help laughing because he's just so fucking vain - although who wouldn't be, with a face and a body and a cock like that. He's like a sculpture, like an invention in a wet dream.

"Indescribable. You should be painted by a master. Get a fucking photographer in here, words aren't going to do it. Just - Harry, your hands." He watches ravenously as Harry's other hand slips down to touch his balls as he wanks himself, fingertips cupped around and thumb rubbing gently there even as his stroking hand gets faster and harder. "Maybe you could put your finger in your mouth for me. Get it wet, and - and inside."

The noise Harry makes is extraordinary: desperate and pleading, as though Graeme's told him not to touch himself. He makes a show of this as well, sucking two fingers so deeply into his mouth that his lips are touching his knuckles, drawing them back out again gleaming with spit and reaching between his legs to rub the wetness against his hole. "Can you see?" he asks, breathless and trembling. "Gray - are you looking?"

"Of course I'm looking." He can't see the actual penetration when it happens, but he can see the motion of Harry's hand and the open-mouthed expression of stunned pleasure on his face, and that's even better. "I wish you could see yourself."

Harry glances at the mirror behind the showers, but it's too far away to make out much. "Tell me."

"Stunning. You're flushing right up your neck, all down your chest. Your mouth all bitten and red. You look fucking defiled. You - just fingering yourself like that, just fucking your hands. Are you going to come?"

"Yeah," Harry says wildly, breathing and whining too hard for his usual flawless enunciation.

Graeme leans closer, leans over the bar he's still clutching in both sweaty hands, and watches Harry completely fall apart fucking his own fingertips and thrusting hard into the tight circle of his shaking fingers. When Harry comes he has just enough wherewithal left to clamp his bitten lips down on the beginnings of a cry, sending it out of his nose instead as a shattered little moan as he streaks his chest and hand and rumpled sheets.

"God," he keeps mumbling, "oh, god." He's still stroking, slow and firm, coaxing out the last few pulses of come to drip onto his filthy fingers. Graeme sits back on his heels to watch this aftermath too, no less fascinated by the sleepy, sated look in Harry's eyes now than he was by the show. Harry's lost in himself, wallowing in the final moments of his ebbing pleasure - he looks beatific, like someone holy from a Renaissance painting, all cheekbones and dimples and the splay of lashes underlining his closed eyes.

"I want to bite your mouth," Graeme murmurs, barely realising he's speaking until the words are out there and Harry's eyes have flown back open on hearing them.

He doesn't respond at first: he's holding one hand up in front of him, watching, fascinated, as a drop of his come travels slowly from his messy palm down the skin of his wrist like a tear track.

"Well," Harry says eventually. He presses the pad of his thumb against his raw lower lip, and Graeme sees a flicker of his pink tongue lapping like a kitten at the mess there before Harry smiles, conspiratorial and lovely. "Then you should probably come and do it."