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Blue Velvet

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“Good evening!”

The hostess that greets them at the top of the stairs hands them each a glass of champagne. Bowls, not flutes, which is pretentious as shit and much easier to spill but they do look good. Last time they were here Harry had informed Eggsy that the shape of the glass was originally modelled after Marie Antoinette’s tits, which he'd called bullshit on but had turned out to be true.

Eggsy considers for a moment his acquaintance with Marie Antoinette’s tits. Small but perfectly formed, he supposes, much like the petite strawberry-blonde hostess who leads them through into the main bar room. She’s wearing the club’s strangely outdated uniform: maroon waistcoat over a fitted but not tailor made ivory blouse - Eggsy notices those things, these days - and speaks with a very slight accent… German, Eggsy thinks, but perhaps not quite. Swiss? Belgian?

“I'm Kate,” She looks them both over and actually does a double take at Harry, from his polished brogues - Eggsy’s actually got him in brogues! It’s a night out, it’s definitely the time  - to his loosely side swept hair and back down. Not like Eggsy blames her. He's classically gorgeous in a grey tweed sports coat, white shirt and a navy knit tie: relatively edgy, for Harry; a softened version of his look in concession to a night firmly designated to recreation, or in a nod to the youth on his arm and it looks good on him. Eggsy looks good on him.

Though, they’re not actually holding hands or even touching at that moment which may explain the coy little glance the hostess flashes back, specifically to Harry, as she leads the way into the main bar room.

“Forgive me if you're regulars. I'm new.” There's a pause in question for an introduction, and that is singularly the poshest excuse for a ‘ do you come here often ’ Eggsy has ever heard, but he knows he's heard it, and he can't quite believe it.

“Harry, and Eggsy.” Nobody ever gets his name wrong when he's introduced like that: the way Harry says it, it could pass for the public school nickname they usually presume it is. Funnier how much easier it seems to trip off the tongue then.

They slide into a booth near the bar. Not a first choice for most, probably - too close to the thoroughfare - but ideal for two people habitually accustomed to watching exit routes. It may also have been chosen because it's going to give their new friend Kate as many excuses as possible to slink by Harry on her way to and from other patrons who don't get nearly the same treatment they do and it is very clear to Eggsy where that's directed.

Eggsy looks over his almost-finished welcome champagne, narrowing his gaze at the departing bartender, speaking to Harry without turning.

“She's well got her eyes on you.”

She's somewhere ambiguously between them in age, potentially just a touch closer to Harry: old enough not to have considered Eggsy’s place in the picture even for want of an accurate read on Harry's orientation. It's a little amusing, a little exciting: the quirk of a possibility.

“Oh don't be absurd.” Harry is forever self deprecating: if he agreed he'd never say so, and the chances are he's genuinely oblivious enough not to have credited the way the woman subtly checked him out.  “I must be a good ten years too old, and-” he catches Eggsy’s sharply arched eyebrow. “Oh. Well just because you're a hopeless twink does not in fact mean my appeal is universal.”

Eggsy doesn’t get time to argue before she’s back, leaning in flirtatiously: not blatant, but friendly enough. Eggsy’s got her number, figuratively. Literally he’s trying to work out how she’s planning on slipping it to Harry: it’s far too up market a place to write it on a serviette.

“What can I get you, gents?”

Who knows, really. There aren't anything like lists or menus, the club is out the other side of high end, where they don't expect you to need a list of suggestions, where nobody ever talks about what anything costs, where you can absolutely wear trainers if you're a member, who cares: if you don't own the place someone you know probably does.  No photos, no entry charge, no chance whatsoever of even being allowed in the front door if you haven't been through some years long secret selection process that probably involves sacrificing swans and being full body baptised in caviar, or at least routinely shagging someone who has.

There ain't no prizes for guessing which one of those categories Eggsy comes under.

It's a load of absolute pretentious wank and Eggsy loves it. When he just thinks about the people that used to  wind him up even back home, with their Friday night prosecco snapchats and showing off their shopping bags.... Not that he can get involved in all that now, of course, but here he is, suited and booted, drinking top shelf cocktails in clubs that have doorbells but no signs with his Cambridge educated before they were fucking born boyfriend. Fiancé. Shit, he’ll get used to that eventually.

Surprise, fuckers.

Eggsy always feels very much the boy toy when they come here, and it makes him more than a little hot under the collar that they look obvious. Not obvious enough, clearly, because ‘call me Kate’ and her French Twist and her twee little uniform have clearly missed the point. He knows he still looks like he's trying too hard: rough around the edges but making an effort in comparison to the rest of the clientele, who are naturally polished and artfully slumming it. Still, he knows the midnight blue velvet smoking jacket Harry picked out for him - plus black trousers, open necked shirt: Harry insists that's what's appropriate and Eggsy is utterly lost as to why but it looks like he was right - is a good look on him and he's aware of having picked up a few admiring glances himself on the way through, but none as blatant as that woman checking Harry out. Not that he blames her.  Even Harry's shirt was made to measure and the way the darts make it pull just ever so slightly over his pecs when he straightens his back properly is criminal.

Eggsy privately believes that there are people who can buy off-the-peg. Just not Harry, who is six foot three of leg with improbably broad shoulders; nor Eggsy, who has filled out enough that he feels almost as broad as he is tall, fifteen stone of solid muscle… alright, and a couple of pies, but he likes being bigger, stronger than he was before Kingsman got hold of him. Harry likes it too, fawns at his muscles like a fucking teenage girl, it’s bloody brilliant, it just makes Eggsy grateful Dagonet saw it coming and left a little growing room in the seams of all his suits so they could be altered with him rather than having to have new ones. He likes his suits, he's got used to them.

Harry inclines his head towards Eggsy, who orders a bramble. Once he'd have tried to go for something sophisticated or a bit more masculine but fuck it: he's comfortable enough in himself to ask for, and enjoy, what Harry had described as ‘the closest thing to ribena with a twenty something percent ABV’.

If the bartender is surprised she doesn't show it, just nods microscopically with a smile and turns to Harry, where her look changes again, almost imperceptibly inviting. Eggsy starts to prickle a little, but it's warm, amused jealousy rather than affront, for a change: he can tell she's not overlooking him because of class, she just fancies Harry and hasn't put two and two together yet. You want him, but he's mine. Sorry, love.

“And a gin martini, please. About six and one.” For all the wit, a purist’s martini does in fact contain vermouth. Begrudgingly.

“Olive or lemon?”

“Olive.” Harry looks at her - accidentally, probably, he's had a long week - like she's a bit dim, pleasingly enough for Eggsy.  It doesn't dull her enigmatic smile.

“How dirty do you want it?”

Eggsy hides an incredulous snort in the bottom of his nearly empty champagne glass as his eyebrows make an attempt to leave his face.

“Eh, reasonably.”

He turns his thinly veiled shock to Harry the moment she leaves.

“Excuse me?! “

Harry is the picture of bewldered innocence until he catches what he's surprised about.

“Oh. Don't tell me you've never heard of a dirty martini”

“I have. I just presumed it was something… you know. Clue’s in the name, innit?”

Harry smiles, half his face first before the warmth spreads.  “No, despite the connotations it is in fact a perfectly legitimate cocktail.”

“I'm not convinced that's what she’s offering you.”

“I think you're being paranoid.” He is forever making comments like this. ‘Cause he still, still isn't totally settled into his confidence in how much Eggsy fucking adores him or why, let alone the fact he's objectively a very attractive man even when you aren't head over heels for him... presumably. Eggsy’s never going to know what that feels like, let's be honest.

“I think I'm being too subtle, is what I'm being.”

The hot little gaze that passes between them then is an entire silent conversation, the same matching of wordless intuition they fall into when fighting, though this is less a challenge than an invitation to dance: Harry accepts. Eggsy offers to lead. Harry smiles.

Eggsy shuffles a little closer along the booth seat, next to harry where they have a view across the room and will see their drinks being made. Harry visibly enjoys the warm press against his side for a moment or two before loosening himself from him and sliding from the seat.

“Fancy a lesson in bartending?”

Eggsy extends a hand grandly to Harry as if for him to show the way. Harry grabs it, but only holds it long enough to help Eggsy extract himself from the booth: ambiguous. He's teasing.  Chances are he knows exactly what Eggsy is thinking about as he strides back over to the bar, just as Harry’s new number one fan places the distinctively purple Bramble atop a square napkin. Seeing them, she takes it off and places it on a coaster in front of him.

“May we?” Harry asks, gesturing to the seats at the bar and she looks shamelessly delighted before schooling the expression into something more sophisticated. Think you're in there, don't you.  “This one wanted to see a bit of magic in action. ” His nod towards Eggsy, the brief touch on his sleeve, is affectionate but undefined. He might still be a relative: Harry's son, a nephew that's been dumped on him, perhaps, but enough that when it hits her, it will do so like a tonne of bricks. Flattered by the magic comment, no doubt, she flips a martini glass from the chiller cabinet, swirls it to coat the small measure of vermouth around and settle it and then pours in the gin.

“So what's dirty about it?”

Harry nods for Eggsy to watch.  With the long handled spoon, she takes up a generous scoop of the brine from the olive jar and splashes it in.

“That.”

Eggsy screws his face up in disgust. “Dirty? That's filth Harry. Urgh.”

“Oh please. Just gives it the sligh kick of salt.” There's something implied there, in his eyes, for a fraction of a second. A punchline, a challenge. Dirty bugger. “I've seen you drink tequila. What's wrong with that? Though I'll allow that's quite generous for ‘reasonable’.”

The bartender either doesn't hear him or is confident enough not to take any notice of his well-humoured criticism.

“Try it.”

Eggsy eyes it sceptically, takes it and sniffs is. A delicate sip, and then he swishes it from one side of his mouth to the other, eyebrows raised the entire time before swallowing. 

“It's not so bad. For a martini.” He's never quite got the taste for them, despite Harry's best efforts and some brilliant associated memories. Eggsy stretches his straw out between his fingers to offer a reciprocal sip of his bramble, to which Harry hums approvingly.

“That's perfectly horrific. How have you managed to find something that tastes like fruit pastilles?”

“It reminds me of when you get both Slush Puppies mixed together. Has my tongue gone purple?” He sticks it out. Harry's eyes flutter a little with his grin and he shakes his head in equal parts answer and happy exasperation. If anything, Eggsy’s dip into bratty teasing only plays up the gap between them, and he knows Harry doesn't mind, however unsubtle he's about to be: Harry is never ashamed of him. Embarrassed, in his words, “ by constantly looking like a doe-eyed old fool at you” , but never ashamed. If anything, Harry gets off a bit on scandalising his own class. That makes two of them. Also makes for an interesting night, usually, and Eggsy's got a bit of the taste for trouble now along with his creme de mure.

The bartender leaves them to their flirting, although Eggsy reckons that's because the club is relatively low staffed and it's busy for a Thursday night, rather than because she's realised that's what it is. She's quick enough to insinuate herself when she's free again, waiting until Eggsy has his straw in his mouth to ask them -so effectively, to ask Harry - what the rest of their entertainment schedule has in store for them.

He's right, then: she's read them as a pair of bachelors seeing where the night may take them, easing into the weekend. She’s not so far off the truth. They did come out with the intention of making a night of it. Just, where she thinks they’re out for phone number and a date at the least, Harry will in fact be going home with a guaranteed lay.

Eggsy ain’t ashamed that he's easy for Harry. It's the perks of picking up a bit of rough, ain't it? Besides, he's been simmering quietly since they spent a long hour getting ready together, all close shaves and anticipation. Making a bit of a show of themselves, which is looking increasingly tempting - not to mention likely, if Harry is true to form, once he’s got a couple of drinks in him - has never once done anything but key them both up. The sex is going to be blinding.

“How are your drinks, gents?”

“Great, thanks.” So what if Eggsy lets the th slur into a f ? Harry doesn’t even give him the little tap on the thigh to remind him not to, so he’s not concerned about the prospect of people wondering about his companion's education… Eggsy sits forward and uses the change of position to make it look incidental that he chooses that moment to spread a possessive hand across Harry's knee and onto his thigh, fingers coming to rest too high for the touch to be in any way ambiguous.

The double take is minuscule, she's the consummate professional, but it's there. The answering thrill blossoms up Eggsy’s back.  He's made his point, but he leans in at an angle, as if to whisper, and places a soft kiss just behind Harry's jaw, under his ear. Cards on the table, he doesn't even attempt to hide the look of irritation at their moment being interrupted when she takes their empty glasses back from in front of them.

There's the tiniest change in her demeanour - no less friendly at all, but something - and in it Eggsy reads his victory.

“Another?” She says only when they move apart and Harry leans his weight into the bar.

“Please.”

And then Harry spots a couple he knows and Eggsy ushers him to go and say hello, that he’ll come over when their drinks are ready. If that gives him a moment to share a now definitely conspiratorial, knowing grin with the bartender, the night’s just starting to liven up, and the drinks make it to the a little quicker when there isn’t a masterclass along with making them: Eggsy sets his tongue in his cheek and resists the urge to ask for a tray to take them over on.

Eggsy passes Harry his drink and leans in to be reintroduced: yes, he does remember Karen, who works for one of Kingsman’s fabric suppliers, although he’s not sure whether that’s fabric suppliers or ‘fabric suppliers’  and from the slightly cagey catch-up he’s pretty sure Harry doesn’t remember either. He rests one hand in the centre of Harry's back which drops naturally, as he relaxes, to his belt and then lower, until Eggsy's got his thumb tucked into Harry's back pocket, fingers splayed in a possessive grasp of his arse cheek.

And Harry shudders .

There’s congratulations on their still reasonably fresh engagement, some small talk, Eggsy finishes his drink whilst talking to the lanky dark and handsome husband he suspects Harry may at some point have had a slightly narcissistic thing for. More acquaintances mill over with another round of drinks - Eggsy’s losing count and he can feel it in his knees but not his head yet - and Harry excuses himself to the bathroom.

Eggsy fully intends to wait a reasonable amount of time, thinks fuck it and follows him.

The bathrooms in this place have always felt ridiculous to him. They’re carpeted, for a start, which is just grim in Eggsy’s book but that said they’re always immaculate. For some reason before you get to the actual toilets there are a couple of arm chairs by the sinks - posh people are all weirdos - where he finds Harry washing his hands.

“Come here often?” Eggsy steps up against Harry’s back, and nowhere he puts his hands feels any more appropriate than he wants it to, to be honest. Harry laughs for him, and that’s a magical thing in itself.

“Won't be coming here at all if we get booted out for indecency…”

Eggsy just laughs against the back of his neck. He kisses at the back corner of Harry's jaw until he turns to face him and then meets his lips, warm and rewarding.

“Nothing indecent about a kiss, is there?”

There might well be, the way Harry kisses. Eggsy's been guilty of rushing it in the past, skipping through the trailers to get to the good bits, but Harry's kisses still make his toes curl. Definitely inappropriate for public displays of affection and well worth the risk of getting caught necking in the bogs. Mind you, the money, the people in this place… Eggsy is almost wholly convinced you could get caught actually banging over a sink and all security would do is watch the door and make sure nobody else walked in until you'd come, maybe buy you ten minutes to make sure you had time to straighten yourself out so as not to inconvenience you or cause a good customer any distress, sirs.

But that's not to say the punters won't bat an eyelid. They both know how it's going to look when they come out, so best not to risk more than a couple of minutes but it's long enough for a kiss. Eggsy doesn’t really give a shit if it isn’t and in his heart he knows Harry doesn’t either. He gets one hand under Harry's collar and pulls his tie loose, enough to get in at his neck, treated to a breath of his aftershave.

“Eggsy…” It's a warning, but a warm one. Alright, they might have discussed the logistics of a quick, secret fuck in these specific toilets once or twice, and one of those conversations may have been had with hands quite insistently in each other's trousers in the back of a cab on the way home after a night that started off feeling very much like this one. So he can see why Harry might think he's got ideas.

“Nah, I'm just…” he pulls Harry forward and nibbles along his jaw, down into his neck, face pressed into his now flexible collar as he scrapes his teeth against the skin. “Can I?”

Harry leans further down, giving him more access. It’s beautiful, seeing him needy and Eggsy is confident enough to reckon that’s more him and the whole scenario than the booze at this point.  “ Yes .”

Even though he's been given permission Eggsy doesn't bite, exactly. His teeth bracket skin but he just sucks, pulls Harry's skin into a pinch in his mouth and sucks as hard as he can, until he can feel the blood vessels prickling in his mouth, until the vacuum pops. Harry groans when he releases him, but Eggsy hauls a breath in and bites down again. Harry whimpers a little groan that could be actual pain, although it's quite obvious he doesn't mind in the slightest, and goes totally still until he’s released from Eggsy’s mouth, from the grasping of his hands.

Eggsy looks at the mark he's made, lets out a Happy, low laugh and fusses to straighten Harry's collar. In the mirror he’s expecting Harry to look exasperated but indulgent but what he sees is a heat, a want that makes his stomach lurch and his fingertips twitch against Harry’s collar and fetches the breath from his throat before he can speak.

“Let me just pull that back up for you.”

“How bad is it?”

“Uh. Like that?” He taps Harry’s collar into place, and straightens his thick tie. “Barely. You can see the edge, if you're looking.” He doesn't tell him about the rest of it. He knows he can feel it, but Eggsy is privately impressed: in the centre of the red-purple mottling, the overlap of the repeated bites is near black already. The pinch of his teeth has made neat little blue indents and the whole thing’s vicious, undignified. Eggsy’s not left a mark that damning on someone since he was about fifteen, and even the peek of what will be visible over Harry’s shirt makes his cock stiffen up with the pride of possession. It looks like it's been made from behind, now he thinks about it, but it is all but covered with his collar done up. Just for Eggsy to know it's there.  It's far enough back that he'll need two mirrors to let Harry see it, or he could take a picture to show him, but later. Later.

They find themselves back at the bar quick enough that nobody really looks, and Kate is as pleased to see them as she has been all evening although now it's with the pique of conspiracy rather than desire. She still addresses Harry first but maybe that’s because he’s older, or because she assumes he’s paying. Like everyone will.

“Martini?”

“Vesper, please.”

“Ooh, getting adventurous are we?” She doesn't look from him to Eggsy and back, but maybe her eyes just flick that way; acknowledgement, a little shared joke, a touch of well done you that could be aimed at either of them, actually. She's clearly expecting Harry to commentate as she mixes his drink.

“Pernod rather than Lillet, please,” he interrupts, “and that-” she wrings a strip of lime peel through a lighter flame to coax the oils to the surface,twists it and drops it in, “is the closest I will tolerate citrus fruit to my gin. Try?”

This time Eggsy waits for Harry to lift the glass to his lips for him and maintains eye contact, sultry and intimate which is rather ruined by the immediate wince and choking. Eggsy has survived all of the shit he has only to be poisoned by his own fiance in a posh nightclub.

Wait, no, it’s just horrible.

“Christ, that tastes like it's been hosed off a runway.”

“Mm,” agrees Harry, smiling, just starting to come a little unraveled at the edges with drink. “Exactly how I like it.”

“Thought you liked it dirty?”

“Behave.”

Oh, he’ll behave. Eggsy knows just the line to walk, without making Harry uncomfortable; what to imply with his touches, with the set of his shoulders. What Harry will want people to think, to picture, when they see a boy like Eggsy at his side. They talk about it enough. 

Eggsy shrugs his jacket off and dangles it over his shoulder, leaving it there whilst he turns his cuffs up to his elbows the way Harry taught him, neat and secure, before tucking his finger through the loop of the label and taking up the pose again. Harry’s busy reintegrating them into the flow of the group’s chatter, so when he turns to make a comment to him and sees Eggsy having stripped down a little, he swallows a mouthful of his rank fucking cocktail the wrong way and arely recovers before someone has to slap him on the back.

Score one for Eggsy.

“S’ ‘ot in ‘ere, innit?”  It’s a relief, really, not to have to talk proper. It’s become second nature, he’s generally brushing up a bit but it does tend to be more of an effort after a few drinks, and Eggsy’s sucking at crushed ice through a straw, draining the dregs of something he no longer really remembers ordering.

“It is, my love. Your drink appears to be broken. Should I fetch you another?”

Eggsy grins - “Gentleman’s choice,” - and turns back to their friends, shaking his head. “Fuck me, have those lines ever actually worked for him?”

“He doesn’t seem to be doing too badly,”  demurs… Carl, that’s the husband’s name, may be a cleanup specialist, may be an actual dry cleaner … with a wry smile and everyone laughs. Eggsy doesn’t feel bad that they’re laughing at Harry: they’re laughing with him, really, and if he heard why he’d only go pink and agree completely.

When he returns, Harry presents Eggsy with a coupe of something dark blue, frozen thick and swirling with an iridescent shimmer below a sparkling sugared rim, like a galaxy in a glass.

“Are you taking the piss?”

“Not at all.” Harry cracks into a loose grin. “Well… maybe a bit, but you'll like it and I have been assured it will actually turn your tongue blue.”

“What is it?”

“Pomegranate and raspberry daiquiri, with additional…blue. And look.” He swirls the glass and the shimmer within lifts and dances in the light. It's a work of art. Eggsy almost feels bad drinking it without instagramming it first but you just don’t do that in these places.

“I did not know that was a thing.”

“It wasn't. It's now a Blue Velvet.” He nods to his jacket, still slung over his shoulder.

Eggsy burns in the best way at having had this created for him.  He can hear Harry's lascivious pride. Make that brute of a boyfriend of mine the sweetest thing drinkable, and don't hold the glitter. And what a picture he makes standing there, functional working class bulk in his shirtsleeves, sipping a drink that could only be more camp if it had come with sparklers in it. Harry's, by contrast, is unspecifically brown and in an ominously short measure in his tumbler. Eggsy finds himself a little weak, a little too warm at the sight of his long fingers splayed around the square glass.

“- the fucks that?”

“Sazerac.”

Eggsy knows that one.

“Jesus, Harry. You ain't planning on getting up early in the morning then.”

Harry levels him a deliberate look, sliding a hand to rest on the small of Eggsy’s back, sticking his shirt down to the already damp heat of his skin. “I wasn't particularly planning on getting out of bed at all tomorrow.”

Harry.” The natural response is a scandalised giggle over his ridiculous drink and, alright, he couldn't have staged a better comeback if he'd tried.

Carl rolls his eyes fondly at them and the neighbour they’d just been introduced to - “from the tailors! You know!” -  turns away.

Some time later, some happy, silly chatter that Eggsy loses the detail of because he finishes his drink too quickly and spends too much time sharing coy, stupid little glances with Harry when he catches him looking, and they find themselves back at the bar, hands on waists, standing too close. Kate has apparently learned better than to presume.

“What will it be?”

“I think we’re probably heading off,” Harry says quietly, more to Eggsy than anything, and when his hand goes for his wallet Eggsy catches his fingers, clasps them at hip level to pull him closer for a chaste but warm kiss, and whilst he's distracted slides his own card across the bar.

Really, it should be harder to do that to a fucking spy, which only means Harry is either actually drunk or enjoying the pantomime of it, of those who have fallen into staring seeing him be treated by his young date. One day he's really going to sell the idea that he's new money trying to woo his demure silver fox into common debauchery, and they'll buy it: they don't have many of his type in here. They'd also not be a world away from being right, but that’s by the by.

Eggsy… ” is it just loud enough to catch the attention of the stranger behind him?

“I said I was taking you out.” Eggsy pokes his PIN number into the keypad and hands it back without looking, which seems to be the done thing, even though pressing the buttons takes a telling amount of effort, coordination starting to ebb as his circulation seems far more interested in his cheeks and his groin. “I've got it. I've got the cab home. I've got breakfast in the morning.”

Something warm, dark, happens in Harry’s eyes, and Eggsy can see him hoping the younger couple behind him heard that. Implications, assumptions...he likes twisting them around as much as Eggsy does causing a little confusion. He hopes they talk, when they've gone home. He hopes someone's still thinking about it later, trying to work out what a look or a gesture meant about the specifics of them by the time Eggsy’s got Harry stripped and sobbing, bent over the end of their bed until his knees give out.

It’s just a shame Harry doesn't notice the way people look at him, too. He doesn't fish for compliments about it; he doesn't do himself down beyond completely failing to see that he is not simply a decent looking guy in a good suit. He's beautiful, in or out of the suit - out of the suit is a whole different ball game and not one Eggsy wants to share although the sudden visualisation of his long, slim, sculpted naked body makes Eggsy’s face heat up - with a wicked mind and a filthy mouth nobody sees coming. Harry always reckons they're looking because they can't work out how he snagged a pretty young thing like Eggsy… or that they think they have worked it out and it's something naughty. Point is, he's always got some excuse other than his own magnetism for the way people look at him, the way they are with him. He managed to write Eggsy’s very obvious interest off as respect and a host of other things until he’d more or less slapped him round the face with it, spread it open on his desk like a broadsheet or a dissected butterfly or Eggsy’s arse a whole twenty minutes after that particular little chat.

In an instant, Eggsy makes a decision. He is going to show him, but he's going to want to be able to quite publicly stake his own claim in response, and that means going somewhere a little less… subtle.  He takes his blazer back off, and turns back to where Harry is saying his goodbyes to his friends.

“Karen, would you look after these for us? We can come and pick them up during the week if that's alright…”

Eggsy takes Harry's jacket down off his shoulders and he obligingly shrugs out of it, even though he's understandably confused. The fuzz of alcohol on him makes that stupidly endearing.

“I thought we were going?”

“We are.” Eggsy folds both jackets delicately in the middle and holds them out to the fabric salesperson who almost definitely isn’t an arms dealer, which is alright because they’re civvie clothes, who takes them obligingly. “We are going dancing, and the shoes are going to be bad enough. I don't want to be responsible for these.”

Getting baby oil, glitter, lube, or any number of other substances out of velvet is not a task Eggsy wishes to contemplate. Especially not with a hangover.

With only the most hasty and laughing farewells, Eggsy takes Harry by the hand and drags him out into the night. If anyone has any opinions about Harry Hart being pulled out of their club half dressed by his young lover they are only the sort of gossip it will turn Harry on to think about tomorrow, if Eggsy remembers enough to tell him, because whatever was in that blue shit is going straight to his head.

There's no sense even attempting to hail a cab. Their own wouldn't be able to cut through the traffic and it can only be half a mile or so...maybe a mile by the time Eggsy’s dragged them in a circle of three wrong left turns down pedestrianised streets but it's warm and everyone's happy, lively, the streets in SoHo are manic even midweek.  The rainbow neon signage beams out at them and Harry can no longer avoid knowing where they are headed.

“Oh, Eggsy. I'm  hardly dressed for this.”

“Too right you ain't.” He undoes Harry's tie as they're walking and tucks it in his own back pocket, nuzzling into his neck for another waft of that aftershave, tinged now with whiskey and fresh sweat. He's suddenly tempted to turn around again and take them both straight home, but the night is young yet, and it would be a shame to hide Harry away, to keep him to himself when he looks like that.  “Look at you. You're going to get eaten alive. Be like chucking you in a tank of piranhas.”

“That’s hardly reassuring.”

“Oh shut it, Harry, you know you'll be fine.” Just for that Eggsy helps him undo another button, fingers clumsy, eyes hungrily dragging on the picture he's made. His tongue wets his bottom lip.  “Not sure that shirt is going to make it out alive though.”

Eggsy might have to ditch his, surrender completely to stereotype and find someone to cover him in glitter gel and neon rainbow doodling; he's not sure he has the confidence exactly but the dove grey dress shirt, even undone and minus the fancy jacket, is making him self conscious and who knows what a few more drinks might unleash. He's not drunk. Not yet, but tipsy wouldn't be an exaggeration. Buzzing.

They've never come here together. Eggsy has been with mates, he reckons one of them does a few shifts behind the bar although it’s pot luck if they’re on tonight. He gathers harry has done the rounds in his day, is no stranger to the scene itself but this is in some way like bringing a date to a meat market, and Eggsy’s familiar enough with the usual merchandise to be sure of an interesting reception. Plus the drinks are cheap, ish, and  the thunder of cheesy dance music that hits them the moment they’re waved in is one of only two things that are going to help the thrumming under Eggsy’s skin. The other can come later.

Harry tugs at his hand until he pauses and turns to look at him.

“Eggsy, I must be the oldest person here!”

“Do you know what… “ Eggsy gives him the world’s most obvious, visible once-over with his eyes and finds himself actually as hungry for it as he wants to look.  “I think you might be.”

And then he takes both of Harry’s hands and walks backwards to lead him until they’re swallowed up in the crowd around the bar.

Eggsy orders grizzly pre mixed cocktails whilst he can secure enough space at the bar to wait for them, and asks after his mate who isn’t working, as it turns out. It can’t be even three minutes before some pretty dark-haired twink with brown eyes and a lip ring plants himself next to Harry, leaning back on his elbows on the bar.

“Hello, daddy.” Just... for fuck's sake. Eggsy gets it, right, he does, but... every fucking time. “Want to buy me a drink?”

See, if he'd at least offered to buy Harry one first Eggsy would have allowed him, would have even let Harry drink it before he stuck his oar in, but nah. That's just rude, and he's had at least one too many to be subtle about it, not that he thinks Harry wants him to be for a second. He leans over  to put a possessive hand around Harry's arm and pull him against his body.

“Sorry love.” The words have been stuck behind his teeth all evening: Eggsy almost has to grin to get them out although it may look like hes snarling. “He's with me.”

Harry cuts a look at him, shocked and dark, and if you didn't know him you might call the look affronted but Eggsy knows that is the unmistakable expression of Harry Hart being ambushed by an erection he shouldn't be at all surprised by.

Not long after that, Eggsy spots a friend and waves. It takes her and her girlfriend - presumably, though if they've met before Eggsy doesn't remember her name - to make their way across the downstairs dance floor to where they're still perched by the bar.

“Eggsy! Look at you, you swanky bastard, where the fuck have you been?’ She takes in just still too-smart outfit, clean shave, nice hair, fancy shoes and then her eyes cut to Harry, who was half concealed behind him, hand steadyingly on Eggsy’s wrist. “Who is this ? Is he yours?!”

“Yep.” Eggsy beams at her, smug as all hell. “This is Harry. Harry, Millie.” He cuts away to flag down whoever comes to the bar first, orders them a round of tequilas, mostly in hand gestures, and then has to pay attention to get some sensible drinks as well or he'll be waiting an age to get served again. He doesn’t mind turning his back: Harry is used to Eggsy’s acquaintances being sceptical or making unflattering jokes, but Millie won't let him down.

You are the boyfriend we've heard rumours of?”

“Ex boyfriend,” grins Eggsy, setting the pins up…

“Fiancé,” Harry deadpans, knocking them down to delighted laughter. “Honestly Eggsy, you need to stop doing that.”

She takes Harry by both hands and has a proper look at him. “You are stunning. No wonder Egg’s become a recluse.”

“I'm not a recluse!”

“You never come out.”

“Got better things to do, ain't I?”

“Clearly!”

Harry is wonderfully bright scarlet but still manages to be a total gent in the introductions,  winning Millie and her date - Beth, apparently, no, Eggsy’s not met this one, she’s American and with the theatre, good luck to her - because as soon as Harry turns to pick his drink up she looks at Eggsy and dramatically fans herself, and to the best of his knowledge Millie hasn't fancied a man since Sean Bean in Sharpe and she was about seven at the time.

They catch up a little over two more shots and chasers, Millie compliments his shirt again, and he looks at her slim fit navy v-neck properly. Yeah, that might just work.

“Wanna swap?”

She grins at him. “Are you being serious?”

“Like a heart attack, babes, you'll look sharp and I can't dance in this shit.”

“Eggsy, you can't dance full stop.”

He knows. Unless you count ballroom following Harry's very capable, unspeakably sexy lead, and they're unlikely to bust out a Viennese waltz in here. Argentine tango, maybe at a push, but he's had too much tequila to rememer the steps or be sure it won't turn into the all-out dry-humping it always feels like it might.  “I can, I just fuckin’ shouldn't. Ain't gonna stop me though.” He unbuttons, cuffs first and then from the collar, whips his shirt off and holds it around her, looking up at the ceiling and making a big deal of whistling whilst she pulls her top off over her head and swings it at him from two fingers, shoving her arms into his sleeves and laughing.

It's only once he pops his head out from wriggling into the snug - very snug - stretchy t-shirt that he really process that he's been standing shirtless…  no big deal, it's not like he's the only one... and one of the hungry stares burning on his body is Harry’s, so that's just fine. Two more shots have appeared on the bar by his elbow, and the bartender nods to tell him they're for him when he looks up, and gestures to a pretty fit tattooed lad at the end of the bar, who winks, and Eggsy holds the glass up in thanks.

Then he passes one to Harry.

“What is it?”

“No idea. Don't know the guy who bought ‘em either, get it down your neck.” Harry will like the idea that someone else wanted to make a play for Eggsy, that’s just how he is.

“You're going to break some poor boy’s heart.”

“And it won't be yours, so who cares.” Eggsy tosses his shot back and dumps the glass into the bucket behind the bar without even tasting it. Harry follows suit and the fact he doesn't stop to wince means the booze is doing its job.

Harry knocks into someone as he turns from the bar and makes some quip in apology that has them both laughing, and then he shimmies out of the crush with a lazy smile on his face, hips falling into the beat of the music, throat working as he takes a pull from one of the two beer bottles he's holding in the same hand, fingers splayed around the necks catching a bit of foam.

It makes Eggsy ache. He thought once he'd never see anything hotter than Harry all done up proper… and then he watched Harry get sloppy, and it is gorgeous every time. He's untucked, unbuttoned, his hair gel has completely given up on him and left the length that's usually perfectly combed back loose in his face, long enough to touch his cheekbone. That alone makes Eggsy’s cock twitch in his boxers. He's been sporting just the comfortable side of a semi more or less consistently all night. Harry may like to joke about his youthful libido but he's just got no idea what he does to him.

Stepping back, Harry extends the hand that's not around the neck of his beer bottle, and nods into the crowd.

“Are we going to stand around all night...” Eggsy knows what's coming and he grins before the line lands. “Or are we going to dance?”

They do. Sort of.  The club is packed, always is because it's one of the more conspicuous and the gogo boys in the front windows do a grand old job if marking it look like a good time, which it is. Conversation’s not an option, there’s a lot more exaggerated grinding and making daft faces at each other than actual dancing and it’s so hot they’ve necked their drinks in no time flat which Eggsy is just about with it enough to realise is a terrible idea, and he doesn’t care.

Remaining a short distance from Harry for a while whilst Eggsy hugs a few acquaintances this will save him from actually having to catch up with is tactical. Probably stupid, but so immensely satisfying when he's right: when Harry is utterly oblivious to the first guy who comes over to him and dances way too close, painfully polite when he inadvertently skirts him and finds himself immediately approached by someone else. It's like leaving a fucking lure out, and it's wonderful to see Harry blush like that, plus there's a quiet comfort to knowing how easily Eggsy could painfully incapacitate everyone nearby if he needed to, even in this state. He's got no problem with them having a crack at pulling Harry, but if anyone upsets him they won't forget it in a hurry.

Harry shrugs off the hand placed on his upper arm for the third time and that's Eggsys cue. See, he just had to let it go far enough that Harry couldn't dismiss the attention as cordial friendliness before he stepped in, just to prove his point.

“Here y’are babes!”  He's carrying a bottle of Budweiser in each hand, shots held between finger and thumb. He holds those in his right out to Harry, knocks back his own shot, flicks the glass - well, it’s plastic - over his shoulder just in time to watch Harry mirror him and then wince at the beer he's got to wash it down with. “Oi, don't be a fuckin snob. - ‘Allo!” He's crushingly friendly, a whirlwind of beaming smile and hands on shoulders to the interlopers as he gently manoeuvres himself up against Harry's body and feels his grateful hands go instantly to his arse. They disperse pretty quickly, although whether they realise they’re a couple or just back off in deference to the sheer brass bollocks on Eggsy isn’t clear and doesn’t matter. When he shifts back against Harry, he’s hard and his grip on Eggsy’s hips is biting.

Their dancing no longer bears any relation to whatever music may be playing.  Harry kisses at his neck from behind and Eggsy very abruptly wants to go home and fall into bed, if they even make it that far. He’s had too much and not enough of Harry’s clever, sexy touches, momentarily doesn’t understand why they bothered with all of this when they could have ploughed through a couple of bottles of wine and had a filthy, rough shag on the floor in front of Harry’s stupid creaky sofa and been in bed a couple of hours ago… but then he, twenty six, looks at Harry, fifty three, caning shots and dancing to Katy Perry and gets a fucking grip. Harry's in his element in a way Eggsy's never seen him. He moves well, obviously; he charms everyone who comes near him and attracts so many appreciative looks, winks, and all-out stares that Eggsy feels like getting the DJ to announce that he - that guy there- will be taking that home tonight, thanks. At one point Harry goes to the bar and reappears with two beers, two shots and a small vial held in the crook of his thumb which quickly gets tucked into his pocket.

Harry! Do you -” 

An abrupt raise of an eyebrow pits paid to that question. Wicked heat floods through Eggsy so quickly he can feel his cheeks going pink, and he was hot enough to start with. He has no idea what Harry is planning. - well obviously some idea, just not the specifics - and it always turns him on when Harry so casually wields his experience, makes him feel the gap between them, like he's still the near-virgin straight boy Harry's corrupted. Alright, that might never have been quite the case, but it doesn't hurt to play.

As soon as he has to leave him alone, the obvious happens: Eggsy comes back from the loo to see Harry has been cornered by another older dude, still younger than Harry, perhaps mid forties. It looks very much like the guy has seen Harry not only as a better chance at a shag but a change of pace from the rest of the club’s more typical clientele, whereas Harry looks for all the world like he'd rather be chucking back jagerbombs and sweating under confetti cannons with everyone else.

Of course, Eggsy takes it upon himself to rescue him. Proper knight in shining armour, Eggsy Unwin. And his armour is particularly shining because one of Millie's mates had in fact come armed with several tubes of iridescent blue to pink chroming sparkles which now adorn the triangle exposed by the obscenely stretched v of Eggsy's shirt and twinkle from a glob on the ends of his fingers, which he waves in Harry's direction.

“We were mid conversation, actually.”  The guy almost sneers at him and Harry actually smirks, which is all the encouragement Eggsy needs after quite this much booze and quite this much sugar.

“Oh, don't let me interrupt.” He just stands there, not quite posing but keeping an easy smile on his face whilst the stranger desperately tries to recapture Harry’s attention, if  he ever had it. He's obviously placed himself between Harry and Eggsy league or class wise and thinks he has the better shot... and between them is a dangerous place to get yourself in any context. Eventually he becomes exasperated with Eggsy's continued presence, standing exactly as put with his glittery hand held up whilst he waits.

“Can we help you?”

“Yeah!” Eggsy beams. “Sorry, I just came to do this.”  He spreads the undone neck of Harry’s shirt with his dry hand and wipes his glittery fingers in a stripe down between Harry's collarbones and down the exposed skin of his chest.

Harry laughs against the rim of his beer bottle.  The other man gives him the most withering the grown ups are talking look Eggsy's been on the receiving end of since he was about six, and Harry puts a soothing hand on his forearm.

“Ah apologies, Robert-”

“Richard.” Ouch. Brilliant.

“Richard, This is my fiancé, Eggsy.”

“Ah,” smiles the guy, ruefully, and then “...really?”

“Excuse fucking me?” Eggsy keeps his tone light, not wanting to spoil their evening with kicking off when he's way more amused than angry. “Yes really .”

Rupert, Robert, Richard, whatever, Fucks off in short order after that, funnily enough.

“Men,” tuts Eggsy, playfully, leaning on the wall next to Harry and stealing a dip from his beer. It’s slightly warm and Eggsy could go another one of them sparkly things he had earlier.  “Only interested in one thing.”

“And you're not?”

“Nope,” Eggsy confirms with pride. “I happen to know you make a good fry up n’all.”

Harry will not be making Eggsy breakfast. Nobody will be making anybody breakfast that isn’t coffee and painkillers: Eggsy knows that much from the swimming in his own head, the patchy connections between conversations when the friends and friends of friends happen by them, from the fact Harry gratefully accepts a cigarette from someone they met five minutes ago when they fall out onto the patio because it’s just too hot to keep dancing. Eggsy cannot watch him smoke.

One last drink, then, and Eggsy actually gets himself a coke because he’s feeling proper wobbly and Harry, for some reason, decides he wants an Archers and lemonade. He looks like he’s regretting starting to drink it when another guy about Eggsy’s age who looks like he must go to the gym in a tanning booth brushes by closer than necessary and Harry startles.

“Did he just actually pinch your arse?”

“Yes, but-”

“Right.”

“Eggsy, don’t-”

“Don't?” Eggsy nudges Harry to sit down on the bar stool, swings his leg around to straddle him and plants himself in Harry's lap. “No?” A couple of people double take at the move - alright, it was a bit Magic Mike but it got the job done.

“Oh, no. This is just fine.”

And he snogs him. Not for show, not to fend off other admirers and mark his territory but because at that moment there's just nothing else he'd rather be doing than mashing his mouth against Harry's, biting at his lips, sucking on his tongue, tasting the different mix of drinks on him and fucking Christ are they going to have headaches tomorrow. But it feels so good for now, letting the room spin around them, hot and excited, his heart pounding against the underneath of his ribs like he's run a sprint, or been in a gunfight.

When he pulls back, his lips are tingling from the pull of Harry’s teeth and Harry all but growls at him.

“Don't you dare get up.”

Eggsy knows exactly why. He doesn't mind himself, it's hardly the time nor the place to get self conscious about it but the threat in Harry's voice sends a lightning strike of arousal straight up his back. Jesus.

“Not even to take you home?” He murmurs it close to Harry’s ear, not that it matters who hears, but it’s nice to feel him shiver. “I mean, I'm having a great time, I'll happily stay until kick out but, just to make you aware, like…” Eggsy makes an effort to look like he's thinking very seriously when Harry squints to focus on him so close. “...I am definitely going to have to suck your cock at some point in the next half an hour, And the bathrooms here are… well, they're alright, depends if you want an audience.”

The thing is… he almost does. Eggsy can't think of many things he'd enjoy quite as primally as being seen to be the one that cracks a man like Harry enough to make him drag him off into a bathroom stall and slam the door shut. And then them seeing him come out satisfied, whatever they may think Eggsy has done or let Harry do.

Whatever he wanted.

Harry bundles him to standing, out and into a cab before Eggsy can even focus up on whether his hard-on is obvious through his trousers. Not that he can focus on much. He about manages the ride back to the mews - breathing heavily into Harry’s neck the whole way - without falling asleep or getting nauseous, thank fuck it's only ten minutes or so at that time of the morning, whatever time of the morning it is.

It’s Harry who stumbles on the way up the steps; Eggsy catches the door before it slams and JB snores through, oblivious to them stumbling up the stairs with their shoes still on. Not a word is said, Eggsy’s not spoken since his offer in the club and the mood’s carried; the second he gets Harry into the bedroom he crowds him into the en suite and shuts the door.

“What are you doing?”

By the time he can answer, Eggsy is already sitting on his heels and getting stuck into Harry's zip.

“Take the wildest fucking guess you can possibly manage.”

“I don't… I've had a lot to drink, Eggsy, I'm not sure I’ll-”

“You're wankered , Harry, and I got the feeling it ain’t gonna be a problem. Let me try.”

He’ll try not to be too disappointed if it doesn’t go to plan but, not to be too full of himself, Eggsy doubts it. Harry's at that same lingering half stiffness of frustrated excitement Eggsy's been all night and in seconds he's hard as nails against Eggsy’s cheek whilst Eggsy nuzzles at him, mouthes the crease of his groin, the seam of his balls… about all the teasing he can muster the patience for. Eggsy's dizzy. Harry smells skin-hot and salty and his cock is solid and smooth in Eggsy's mouth, pushing against the back of his throat, going straight in for the kill because for a moment Eggsy forgets their time limit is how long they can stay conscious rather than a risk of getting caught.

“Shhhh, you'll get us kicked out.”

Harry makes a louder noise, surprised and eager.He's far enough gone to slip into the fantasy without caring that it's silly, if he's even paying attention now that Eggsy's swallowing him down.

He doesn't try for finesse. It's quick and sloppy and the slick noise of it, and Eggsy's ragged breathing through his nose, echoes off the tiles.

A split second’s decision, and Eggsy shoves his hand into his trousers to get himsel foff at the same time. Why wait and keep them both awake long enough for Harry to return the favour, if he's even got it in him, when he's so hard now that the zip on his trousers is hurting him? He moans long and loud so that Harry will look down and realise what he's doing, because he knows he likes that, and because it feels just as good as he needs it to after a night like this.

Eggsy thinks about the taste of Harry, salt-sweet now that he's getting close and so familiar. He thinks about the fantasy he's touching on, the one that’s lingered in the back of his head all night:  if not being watched and heard then of people seeing Harry well fucked and happy and knowing Eggsy's doing a good job, earning the way Harry keeps him. He doesn't care if they think he does that on his knees.

Eggsy's hand speeds up, he loses what focus he had and he was supposed to be trying hard because Harry didn't think he’d come, but… but. The flare of pure, unbridled smugness that bursts through Eggsy turns into pleasure half way through. He knows Harry's body that well, turns him on that much that even when he’s barely standing, too numbed by alcohol to keep his eyes fixed on the action even when he wants to, Eggsy can still get him off. He's that good for Harry.

Harry moans and grabs for Eggsy's hair and that's enough for Eggsy, like a feedback loop: he's going to come because Harry's coming and Harry’s coming because Eggsy's whimpering as he goes down on him, ready to coat the inside of his boxers at being able to please him even like this, at the fact he's getting off on sucking on him. It makes his head spin. It’s perfect.

The taste pushes him over, and Eggsy’s orgasm is slow and blissful, drawn out by the noises Harry makes coming down from his own climax with his fingers relaxing from where they’ve clenched against Eggsy’s scalp, melting into sleepiness that satisfies him down to the bones.

Eggsy would be down for sleeping there on the floor, if left to it, but Harry wobbles into the door frame on the way out of the bathroom, they both crack up laughing, Harry hauls him to the bed and the next things Eggsy knows he's waking up with a blinding headache and a mouth like he's been licking sandpaper.

 

The first noise he hears Harry make is a whimper of distress.

Yeah, I know the feeling.  “You alright babe?”

“There is glitter in the bed.”  Harry sounds distraught, and his voice is fucked, and it would be embarrassingly wonderful if Eggsy wasn’t in so much pain and didn’t want to throw up. He won’t, but it doesn’t help to think about it. And I haven't had a hangover like this since 1992.”

“I was born in 1992.”

“Well I'm quite confident that's got nothing to do with it.”

“... thanks for that.”

“Be a darling and put the kettle on.” Harry slaps him half heartedly on the thigh, looking suspiciously like he might be about to go back to sleep, though it may just be that the room spins less with your eyes shut. Not a bad idea, but when Eggsy closes his Harry pushes at him.

“Why have I got to get up?”

“Because you've got almost thirty years on me and, from what I remember, the tequila was your idea.”

“Some might say you were old enough to know better.”

Harry huffs. “May I never be any such thing.” He wriggles over to put a couple of tempting, drowsy kisses on the closest bit of Eggsy's exposed chest. Eggsy doesn’t remember getting undressed but he’s bollock naked and Harry’s right, there’s glitter everywhere.

Everywhere.

“You're going to make coffee. We are both going to have a hot shower.  At exactly midday I am going to make Bloody Marys. And then we are going to come back to bed and do nothing particularly strenuous or that involves moving too quickly.”

“Or.” It’s a decent plan, but Eggsy gets the feeling advances have been made in hangover care since Harry's last proper night out. It also may be pretty close to midday already. What time did they get in, for fuck’s sake? “Or, we could take the duvet downstairs, and camp out in front of the telly so we don't have to move far when pizza arrives.”

“Genius. That sort of genius is how you keep saving the world. I love you. Will you marry me?”

“I'm already marrying you, you fucking knob end.”

“Oh good.” Harry opens one eye and looks at him hopefully.  “Coffee?”

Eggsy just groans and tries not to look up or raise his head too quickly on the way to the kitchen.

 

**

Merlin calls Harry whilst Eggsy is letting JB in from the back garden. It's from home: they set up the non work lines with a different ringtone so as not to subject themselves to undue distress and it works nicely. JB, whilst none the wiser to their shenanigans, useless guard dog that he makes, seems to sense something is amiss and insists on colonising a cushion next to the sofa so he can keep a reproachful eye on them both.

Harry leans over and pokes at the tablet to let the call through. “Morning, Merlin.”

Afternoon, Harry. are you in bed? Are you alright?”

“I'm on the sofa and other than feeling like there's a small creature made of concrete wielding a sledgehammer inside my skull, I'm fine, thank you. Entirely self inflicted.”

Eggsy hears merlin chuckle. “Heavy night? You went to The Limes last night, didn't you?”

“We did, and then Eggsy decided we should go clubbing.” His face makes it quite clear how he feels about that.

“That explains the glitter, at least. Jesus Christ Harry, is that a bite mark?”

“I'm not sure. Is it?”  Eggsy watches him tilt the tablet to use his camera feed as a reflection. At some point he acquired a couple of nice bluish purple additions to the fucking carnage Eggsy made of the back of his neck, which he just just catches the sight of before Merlin does. “Oh, apparently.”

There’s some good-natured reproach answered with “he is making an honest man out of me at least ” and then some shop talk that Eggsy ignores in favour of queuing them a couple of films to watch so they won’t have to move for as long as possible.

Eggsy clambers over the arm of the sofa and crawls up to lay in the spread of Harry’s thighs. He's shirtless in his baggy Star Wars pyjama bottoms and not about to make any attempt to look like Merlin isn't interrupting something.

“Ah, here's the man of the hour. And how are you feeling?”

“Like I've been put through a sieve, guv,” he says, reasonably brightly, leaning back on Harry’s chest and getting comfortable. “Nothing a Dominos and a nice cold full fat coke won't cure. You?”

Merlin grimaces at him, pixelating slightly around the edges with the movement. Harry's wifi always goes a bit dodgy when they've got Netflix running. “Can't complain. In a better state than the pair of you by all accounts. Just wanted to run that by Harry, so I can… What've you got that look on your face for?”

Eggsy can't see Harry's expression from his position, but Merlin’s reaction to it is quite funny enough.

Harry sighs. “Merlin. I've got a filthy headache, a gorgeous twentysomething in my lap and thanks to your dedicated years of hard work and innovation I've just realised I can order takeaway without the use of my hands.”  He blinks at the insides of his glasses a few times, quickly, scrunches his nose up and then blinks again. “Would you look at that, I've got a voucher code for Just Eat.” His hands drop very deliberately onto Eggsy’s front, and Eggsy had only been pulling up the blanket to snuggle into but that may not be what it looks like.

“Harry hart, you are a disgrace. You are far too old for this nonsense.”

“I believe the saying is,” he kisses Eggsy on the temple and accepts his offer of part of the blanket, settling in to wallow in the aftereffects of their debauchery that are getting more tolerable, enjoyable even, as the day wears on, “that you're as young as the man you feel.”

“For fuck’s sake.”

And Merlin disconnects, and leaves them to it.