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The invitation is innocuous enough, if not entirely ridiculous.
“Opera?” Eggsy repeats, sure that he hasn’t misheard, but it never hurts to check when it comes to these things.
Harry nods at him from across the table and makes another pass over the frame of his gun with the flannel he’s using to clean it. “Opera,” he confirms. “Sunday evening at the Royal Albert Hall. I’ve got two tickets. How about it?”
How about no, Eggsy thinks immediately but doesn’t say. He rubs at the slide of his own gun, actually giving it a fair amount of consideration. “Opera,” he says again, like he’s going, really?
“It’s Madame Butterfly, if I may tempt you a little more,” Harry elaborates as he puts down the frame and picks up the barrel and a bore brush.
Eggsy stops cleaning his gun and frowns. “You trying to wind me up?”
“Of course not. You’ve missed a spot, by the way,” Harry replies, pointing it out.
Eggsy rolls his eyes and wipes it away with a thumb. He was going to get to that anyway before Harry’s most untimely proposal, which he’s thinking about far too much for all he’s not going to go along with it. Certainly, a night at the opera belongs close to the top of the list of things he’d prefer not to spend a Sunday evening on, but as the case has been with just about everything else, with Harry in the equation, Eggsy finds himself reevaluating his options.
What? Like, just look at the man, for crying out loud: Harry-motherfucking-Hart with his sterling confidence and elegance and gentleman's hands that know all about the anatomy of a gun, who walks around like sex poured into a pair of Oxfords and a three-piece suit. There is a quality about him that feels unreal at times, his stately features and dapper sense of style fusing into something that would make calling him handsome the understatement of the century. He's screaming hot, no need to be modest on his behalf. He strikes Eggsy as the sort of guy whose name gets shouted out by mistake in bed much too often, whom everyone takes to fancying at some point in their life. The kind a bloke would eyeball by chance on the tube or somewhere on the streets and inadvertently think of in the middle of a casual wank whether they intend to or not.
And no, Eggsy hasn’t been casually wanking over Harry, fuck you very much. Wanks concerning fantasies surrounding the infinite number of things he’d let Harry do to him have led to some of the best orgasms he’s had in a while, so those don’t really feel like they fit the definition.
“So, you’ll come?” Harry asks, peering through the barrel he’s just oiled and scrubbed out.
Grimacing, Eggsy shakes his head and starts to reassemble his gun. “I think I’ll pass, thanks.”
“Oh, come on, Eggsy. Whyever not?”
“Just sounds like it’ll be a drag,” Eggsy says. “I mean, I don’t understand Spanish, so what’s the point?”
“Madame Butterfly’s in Italian.”
Eggsy shrugs, oiling the barrel and ratcheting the slide back over it. “Don’t understand that either.”
“I think it could be very enjoyable for you,” Harry says. He too starts to deftly piece his gun back together, though his eyes remain on Eggsy while he does so. “When was the last time you had a genuine immersive cultural experience?”
“I watched The Sound Of Music on blu-ray the other day,” Eggsy answers. It’s not the whole truth — his mum was watching with Daisy, and Eggsy happened to be in the living room at the same time — but hey, it still counts.
“That’s hardly immersive,” Harry comments, with some disdain. “Opera, on the other hand — now, that’s a true triumph! What could be better than some of the most divine music ever created by mankind?”
“I’m not into opera.”
“You just haven’t seen the right ones, then. Madame Butterfly is superb, I can personally guarantee it.”
“I’ve never been to an opera,” Eggsy amends, and realises it’s a mistake as soon as he says it.
“Never been to an opera?” Harry exclaims, looking aghast, his expression coming close to that of abject horror. It’s not unlike as though Eggsy just admitted to using up all of Harry’s most expensive colognes and then pissing in the empty bottles. “Oh, I should have known — you absolutely must come! I insist. You have no idea what you’re missing!”
The empty magazine snaps back into the butt of Eggsy’s gun. He yanks the slide back, releases it and squeezes off, listening for the click of the firing pin. “Uh, I think I probably do.”
“You don’t. You wouldn’t be saying no otherwise.”
“Why does it have to be me? Get Merlin to go with you,” Eggsy suggests. “He’ll be into that sort of stuff, won’t he?”
“Merlin’s busy,” Harry says, waving his gun spring dismissively at Eggsy and slotting it into place. “He’s going home for the weekend. Besides, he dislikes opera immensely. Can’t stand it. It’s most unfortunate, really.”
Eggsy smirks as he flicks the safety on, checks that it’s working. “Bummer, then.”
Harry sighs. His beseeching expression is not putting Eggsy in a very good position to continue being disagreeable about anything for much longer. “Please, Eggsy. I would very much rather not have to go by myself. Opera’s made to be shared, it’s not as enriching an experience when one attends alone.”
“Shoulda thought about that before you got two tickets, huh?”
“They were a gift,” Harry explains. “A token of goodwill from the Earl of Clarendon.”
Eggsy stops, looking up from his gun. “The Earl of — what.”
“Clarendon,” Harry says again with a frown, Eggsy’s incredulity flying right over his head. “But anyway, as I was saying —”
“Why are you getting presents from the Earl of Clarendon?” Eggsy asks, half curious, half leery. Something fairly improbable and very upsetting occurs to him, and he asks before he can think it through, “Are you bumming him?”
“That is very, very rude of you. No, I am not,” Harry says. “Unfortunately. He just so happens to be one of our many esteemed clients, and I have no doubt that his current partner would be most vehemently opposed to us… bumming.”
Right. Okay. Harry isn’t fucking British nobility after all — in more ways than one, at any rate — which makes Eggsy feel relieved in a way he doesn’t want to think too much about. Although…
“Unfortunately?” Eggsy repeats.
“He is a very attractive man, by any measure,” Harry says casually, carrying out his own gun safety checks with a natural, clipped efficiency. “But happily married, alas. And I don’t believe he has much interest in men, if my memory serves correctly.”
…right. Not okay after all. That’s more information than Eggsy was hoping to get. He looks blankly back down at his gun, feeling a little ill, and suddenly wants a drink. The stronger the better, maybe throw some Rohypnol in it to boot. At least until the urge to hurl heavy things or put his fist through the wall has passed. It’s probably a good thing he doesn’t have any rounds loaded into his gun at the moment.
“Just give it a try, Eggsy,” Harry implores, and it takes Eggsy a few seconds to remember what they were discussing in the first place. “If you don’t like it — and you will, trust me — then you won’t really have lost anything, will you?”
No, Eggsy supposes not. Don’t get him wrong — he’s still certain that opera isn’t going to go down well with him at all, but he’s thinking more about spending time with Harry, who he sometimes doesn’t get to see for weeks on end and still hankers after like a hormonal teenager swooning over his first crush. If he’s going to be sung and acted at in Italian for three hours non-stop, he can think of any better way to do it than with Harry seated next to him throughout the entire thing, their knees almost touching and hands at holding distance and, well. Who knows. Good things could happen.
“What time on Sunday?” he asks.
A delighted smile brightens Harry’s eyes. “The opera starts at half-past seven, but meet me at my place at half three, if you will.”
“I — what? Why so early?”
“To get you ready, of course,” Harry replies, exuding satisfaction all over. “One’s first opera should not be experienced at anything less than their finest. I’ll have you looking perfect, just you wait and see —”
“Get me ready? Like what, having a wash?”
“Quite right, yes.”
Eggsy isn’t following. At all. “Why do we need four hours for a wash?”
Harry chuckles good-naturedly and sets his assembled gun on the table. “You’ll understand. Trust me. You never can have more than enough time to prepare for the opera.”
Eggsy ponders that for a while as he dismantles his bore brush and pops the pieces back into his kit. “Okay. So you’ll be helping me out?” he asks.
“Naturally.”
Now that has the potential to be most interesting, Eggsy thinks. He lets his imagination run wild for a few seconds, all over thoughts of Harry touching him in a hundred different places, fussing with his clothing and dressing him up like a bloody Ken doll, and, oh. Hello. He crosses his legs under the table as discreetly as he can, and yeah, he really could use that drink right about now.
“So long as you don’t make me look like a twat, sure,” Eggsy says, snapping his kit shut.
Harry wipes his hands and tucks his handkerchief back into his pocket. “I don’t suppose you’ve still got that dress suit from the Shanghai assignment, do you?”
“Uh.” Eggsy vaguely remembers it being in his closet somewhere at home. Dark maroon, double-breasted with velvet lapels, a wine-red silk tie and a pair of ruby cufflinks to match. He hasn’t worn it for a long while, having had no reason to feel like a million pounds since finishing the assignment. “Yeah, I think. I gotta check first.”
Harry smiles and stands up. “Excellent. Have it cleaned and bring it with you this Sunday,” he says, holstering his gun. “I’ll send you a message with the details later in the day, and I’ll see you then.”
“Yeah. See you,” Eggsy says, and only uncrosses his legs with a sigh once Harry has left the armoury.
***
On Sunday morning, Eggsy tunes in to Radio Three over breakfast just to get a feel of what he’s been roped into, and gives up on opera altogether. It’s… well, it is nice to listen to, he supposes, and Eggsy can see how something like The Marriage of Figaro might appeal to a gent like Harry. Personally, he doesn’t get it. The overtures and interludes are the easiest parts to listen through — they’re just notes, after all, arranged into a melody that anyone with half a brain could follow. He can’t say the same thing about the actual singing itself, which sounds like the most important part of the opera but as far as he’s concerned they may as well be singing in Klingon, and Eggsy gets the feeling that he’s missing the point. It’s not altogether terrible, it’s just not for him, and he switches the radio off as soon as he’s done with breakfast to go down to the gym to practice his kickboxing into the afternoon.
Now that, he could happily spend four hours on, no problem.
He returns home at two to freshen up a little, and leaves again at three to pick up his suit from dry cleaning before going to Harry’s. In the cab, he texts his mum that he’ll be back late, to which she asks if he has a date for the night. Eggsy’s sorely tempted to reply with a yes, but honesty ultimately gets the better of him. It’s rather pleasing to think of it that way, that he’s going on a date with Harry. He smiles all the way to his house, doesn’t stop smiling until he rings the doorbell and Harry lets him into the foyer.
“Right on time,” Harry says, closing the front door. He waits for Eggsy to remove his shoes before beckoning with his hand. “This way.”
Eggsy follows him up the stairs and into the bedroom, where Harry takes the suit carrier from him and drapes it over his bed. He unzips the carrier and removes the suit within carefully, laying it on the duvet piece by piece.
“Splendid,” Harry says when he’s done, surveying the suit once more and smiling at Eggsy. “You will look very nice indeed, I’m sure.”
Hands in pockets, Eggsy shrugs and smiles down at the carpet. Harry’s compliments always make him feel great about himself, even if he hasn’t done anything particularly impressive. “So what now?” he asks.
“Bathroom. Turn right, second door down the hallway,” Harry instructs, folding his suit jacket over a chair and undoing his tie. Eggsy determinedly keeps on staring at the carpet, because if he looks he will not be able to stop himself from undressing the rest of Harry with his eyes, which is the last thing either of them needs right now. “Clothes off, robe on, and I will be with you shortly.”
Eggsy finds the bathroom a couple paces from the bedroom and slips inside. An empty laundry hamper greets him, a robe that he recognises as one of Harry’s folded neatly on the counter next to it. He strips and bins his clothing and throws on the robe before sitting in the barber’s chair by one of the sinks — of course Harry would have an actual barber’s chair — and swivelling to have a look around.
It’s a large bathroom, larger than Eggsy would expect a single man to have use for. There’s a bathtub and a shower, and nearly every surface glints with polished chrome. No less than five proper mirrors decorate the walls, three in front of each sink and two full-length ones on the sliding doors of the cabinet opposite from where he’s sitting. Eggsy’s entertaining himself with the thought of going through Harry’s toiletries, maybe find out where he keeps the bedroom supplies when Harry knocks on the door and lets himself in.
“Ah, good. You’re all ready.”
Eggsy looks at him, eyebrows raised, because whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t Harry with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his biceps and a clear plastic apron down his front, holding a shower caddy with several bottles and a large blue loofah slotted into it. He watches Harry set the caddy down next to the bathtub, put the plug in and turn on the tap to full blast, gushing hot water into the tub.
“We’ll be having that wash, first,” Harry tells Eggsy over his shoulder. He checks the water with the back of his hand and fiddles with the tap a little. When the tub is three-quarters full, he stops the tap and retrieves a bottle from the shower caddy, opening it and adding a generous amount of its contents to the bath. A pleasant fragrance rapidly fills the warm, humid air.
“What’s that?” Eggsy asks.
“Bath oil,” Harry answers, replacing the cap and picks up a second bottle. “Nothing like a hot scented bath to get yourself in the mood for opera.”
“Looks like you’re about to cook me is all,” Eggsy jokes as Harry stirs a third oil into the steaming water. The imagery isn’t half-bad, actually — Harry boiling and eating him whole. Fuck, Eggsy would probably let him, too.
He catches Harry’s amused smile in his reflection on the bathtub. “It won’t come to that, I promise.”
Ah. Pity.
A sprinkling of soap flakes later, Harry gestures for him to approach. “Now, if you could get in…?”
Eggsy stands and walks over, but stops short of shucking the robe when Harry makes no indication of leaving any time soon. “Er,” he says.
Harry continues to look expectantly at him. “What’s wrong?”
“Are you gonna,” Eggsy continues, not very sure at all himself. “Like. Stay?”
“I don’t see how else I’m going to bathe you,” Harry says with a look that clearly means he thinks Eggsy is being daft.
“Right. Yeah. Okay.” Breathing in, Eggsy shrugs off the robe — fucking fuck, he’s naked in front of Harry, tries not to think about it too much — and slithers into the tub. The water is pleasantly hot without being scalding, serves as a welcome diversion from Harry’s presence right next to him, and Eggsy can’t hold back a happy sigh at the combination of warmth and satisfaction that blooms all over his skin from neck to toe.
“Good?”
“Perfect,” Eggsy drawls. He lets himself sink in the tub for a while, allows the water to go up to his chin for the heat to continue leaking into every last inch of him, and oh god, this is precisely what he never knew he needed after a day of working out. The scent of the different bath oils fills his nostrils, soothingly sweet and fruity, and that along with the warm water cocooning him makes it feel like all the tension in his body is being drained out with every breath he takes. Jesus god, he’s in heaven.
Harry scoops some water over his hair and trickles it down his face, tucks a bath pillow under his head and lifts one of his arms out by the wrist to scrub at it lightly with the loofah. Eggsy grins stupidly when Harry moves on to his other arm, because yes, now he knows what people mean when they say they can die happy. He’s warm and boneless and so relaxed it feels like he’s floating away, like he’s filled with helium, like a weather balloon, like he’s in outer space, all of his earthly worries folded up and left far behind him.
There’s the click of a bottle being unscrewed, and Harry warns, “Shampoo,” before kneading the gel into his hair, and Eggsy closes his eyes dreamily while clever fingers work up a lather against his scalp. Harry’s hands are firm yet delicate, concerted in their movements at the top of Eggsy’s head. Boy oh boy, this is one hundred percent worth having to cringe through an opera, any opera, hell, the whole lot of them at once. If this is all his good karma from constantly saving the world finally paying off, Eggsy’s not going to complain. Far from it. He’ll take ten more to go, please and thank you.
“Up a bit, if you will,” Harry says, and Eggsy lifts his head from the bath pillow, just a little, so that Harry can spread the shampoo through the rest of his hair. Then Harry goes back to massaging the sides of his head, fingertips moving in circles at his temples, and Eggsy breathes out another sigh. He can’t remember ever being this contented about anything, not even counting the time he’d smashed a beer glass into Dean’s fugly mug and gone postal on the rest of his goons afterwards. And even then that had been the burning, vengeful sort of satisfaction, the kind he’d managed to feel a little guilty about before reminding himself that they’d deserved it twice over.
This, on the other hand, is not at all like that. This is pure, unadulterated happiness, with nothing to overanalyse or worry over, just the sensation of heated water all around and the smell of bath oils and Harry’s slippery fingers making sweet, tender love to the top of his head. For how relaxing it is, it’s pretty damn erotic too. Man, if he never actually gets to fuck Harry for the rest of his life, at least he’ll have the memory of this as a substitute for that, a worthy second best.
“Just going to give you a rinse,” Harry tells him, reaching for the showerhead.
“Mmf,” Eggsy replies, too blissed out for anything else. Harry sets the water on low-jet and washes the shampoo from his hair, combing through with his fingers to remove the last of the suds. Once or twice his palm slides against Eggsy’s cheek by accident — well, it feels like an accident, even if Harry does leave his hand there for what feels strictly longer than necessary to clean his face. Nonetheless, Eggsy feels a flush creep up his neck and finds himself thankful for the fact that he’s warm all over from the bathwater anyway.
Harry sets down the showerhead, picks the loofah up again and asks Eggsy to lift his right leg out of the water. He cleans Eggsy’s foot, his calf and his thigh, going no further than where the inside of his leg becomes groin. It’s a disappointment and a relief — Eggsy had been half-expecting Harry to go all the way and help him wash his cock and balls too, but on the other hand he wouldn’t be able to blame the raging erection he knows he’ll definitely get on the bathwater as easily.
His other leg is cleaned similarly, then Harry sets the loofah aside and squirts more gel from another bottle into his hands, scrubbing them together into a bubbly froth. “Come on, get up,” he says. “Sit up straight, now.”
As unwilling as Eggsy is to leave the water, he levers himself up with his elbows so that Harry can get to cleaning his body. He kind of wishes Harry would use the loofah instead, because his cock is starting to take quite the interest in the feeling of being rubbed all over his back and chest and shoulders in so personable a fashion. Every time Harry brushes his nipples with his fingers, Eggsy bites his lip to keep himself from making any noise. God, he wishes they weren’t so sensitive. The hot water’s just made them even more responsive to the slick and slide of soap-coated hands. Harry must know how hard they are by now; he keeps touching them, for fuck’s sake.
“I can bathe myself, y’know,” Eggsy mumbles, but from the way his semi keeps nudging against his thigh underwater, he’s not sure how much he truly means that.
Harry hums in agreement as he scrubs under Eggsy’s armpit and sluices more water down his belly. “Of course you can,” he says. “But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you use my Russian Amber Imperial and watch you do it all wrong.”
And, well, it’s hard to argue with that line of reasoning. Impossible, even. Eggsy wouldn’t even know where to start if he wanted to. So instead, he leans back into the water and closes his eyes to avoid the soap as Harry rinses him off again.
“I’ll leave you to have a bit of a soak, alright?” Harry says, drying his hands and forearms on a towel. “Would you like some tea, or anything to eat? Biscuits, maybe?”
“M’good, thanks,” Eggsy says, not really wanting either of those. What he would like right now, frankly speaking, is for Harry to undress and join him for the rest of the soak, maybe find out if it’s at all possible to give someone a handie underwater. He sinks lower to blow bubbles with his nose, trying to shake the thought to little avail.
“If you want a top-up of hot water, the tap’s already set to the right temperature,” Harry says to him, and tosses the towel into the laundry hamper. He removes his water-speckled apron, rolls down his sleeves and smiles at Eggsy before he picks up the shower caddy and turns to leave. “Just let out some water and fill it up again as you like. Towels are over there. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes, or you can call for me if you’re done sooner than that.”
Eggsy nods with his head partially submerged, and at least when he does find out a short while after Harry’s left that yes, it actually is possible to rub one out whilst submerged in a bathtub full of warm water, it’s easy enough to get rid of the evidence.
***
True to his word, Harry returns twenty minutes later just as Eggsy’s finished towelling off and is donning his robe again. He’s not wearing an apron but his sleeves are rolled up again, stopping halfway up his forearms.
“Sit,” Harry says, patting the seat of the barber’s chair and removing a leather pouch from a drawer. By the time Eggsy’s seated, Harry and a mug and is whipping up a dense froth in it with a brush, which is more than enough for Eggsy to guess what’s coming next.
“I already had a shave this morning,” he points out.
“So you did,” Harry says, but he turns on the tap and proceeds to drench two towels in the sink. Vapour mists up the mirror in front of them as Harry unbuckles the pouch on the dressing table to reveal a pair of cutthroat razors and works the crank of the chair until it’s reclined back and Eggsy’s looking at the ceiling of Harry’s bathroom.
“You gonna go ahead and shave me anyway?”
“Yes.” Oiled fingers dab at his jawline and cheeks and neck, and Eggsy swallows the sudden flare of arousal that springs into the back of his throat. His face prickles from where Harry’s fingers have touched, something he hopes is a result of the preshave and nothing else, but by the way excitement is winding like a spring in his belly it’s hard to buy fully into that. Christ, how is it possible that he’s already getting turned on, he just had a wank not ten minutes ago, didn’t he?
Harry peers down at him, rubs more oil into the underside of his jaw and makes tsking noises as he goes along. “See here, here, and here; you’re as bristly as a sow’s ear. What you need is a proper shave,” he says, tilting Eggsy’s face this way and that to spread the layer of oil more evenly over his skin, his upper lip and mouth, and it is then that it becomes impossible not to think about the fact that Eggsy’s practically kissing his fingers. “This is how it should be done: straight razor, with oil, cream, and aftershave. None of that electrical garbage I’m sure you’re familiar with.”
“It works just fi —” Eggsy tries to argue, just before he’s cut off by a stiflingly hot towel being clapped over his mouth. It’s swiftly wrapped across his cheeks, just below his ears and up towards his forehead and eyes, covering them completely but also leaving his nostrils uncovered so he can breathe. Harry presses it down gently with his palms and fingers, moulding it around Eggsy’s eye sockets and nose and over the contours of his cheekbones, and Eggsy moans outside of his own volition because it feels fucking amazing. It’s like having the bath all over again, but with the pleasure of it concentrated in his face, and with the additional comfort of a soft, fluffy towel bunched and cushioned against it.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he hears Harry laugh.
“Fuck, yes,” Eggsy drones into the towel, almost seeing stars from the heat radiating across his eyeballs. He wouldn’t mind spending the rest of the day like this, honestly. Forget opera — hot baths and towels are where it’s all at on a Sunday evening. Eggsy wonders if he can convince Harry to let him reciprocate the favour, if all the warmth and relaxation would make him more amenable to letting Eggsy suck him off in the chair that he’s seated in. He grips the armrests a little tighter and wriggles his hips in adjustment, aware that he can’t keep going about this line of thinking without running into a consequence or two.
Like, say, the slight tent in his robe just centimetres from Harry’s thigh. It would probably be worse if it weren’t for all the blood flooding his face at that very moment.
After about a minute or so, Harry removes the towel and gathers up a palmful of cream. He takes his time with applying it, each unhurried slather swirling more and more of the foam over Eggsy’s skin until it feels like only his lips are exposed from his nose down. Harry picks up the razor, holding it up to the light and pressing his thumb against the flat of it as he inspects the blade, and Eggsy gulps against a sudden twinge of nerves. It’s not so much for the prospect of having a sharp object held against his throat by a seasoned killer and more to do with the sight of Harry plus anything remotely dangerous equalling a bad place for Eggsy, every single time.
“I’m going to need you to keep very, very still from here on out,” Harry says, his fingers settling against the base of Eggsy’s throat, just above the junction of his collarbones. They’re slender and delicate, and hot, and also pretty warm from the towel.
“…mkay.”
Harry smiles, and Eggsy bites his tongue, hard. “Probably best if you don’t talk too much either,” he says, and then he’s pressing cool steel against Eggsy’s right cheek and making the first stroke downwards.
The next few minutes that follow are the longest of Eggsy’s life. Trapped in the chair with Harry hovering over him, he’s left with nothing but an intense self-awareness of the fact that he’s the subject of Harry’s undivided attention, Harry’s kneecap pressing against his thigh, Harry’s thumb stretching the skin of his cheek tight as he scrapes away at the fine stubble beneath the layer of cream on his face. This close to Harry, Eggsy can see every minute twitch of his face, every last wrinkle, and the way his eyebrows have furrowed in deep focus. The movement of his eyelashes, every time he blinks. People shouldn’t be allowed to have eyelashes as kissable as Harry’s in real life, fuck. It just doesn’t feel right.
Then there’s his gaze, which is boring into Eggsy’s face with a concentration that makes Eggsy feel like one of those butterfly specimens, pinned to a corkboard and put up on display. Like an ant under the lens of magnifying glass, about to burst into flames at any given second. Eggsy looks past Harry and tries not to squirm, does keep as still as he can manage, holds on to his breathing until even his Marine training fails to handle the fingers curling under his throat and tipping it back for the razor to glide gingerly over the pulse in his neck.
Oh, god, his pulse. It’s hammering in his ears and his chest and he’s sure it’s visible in the hollow of his neck, too. Harry even presses his thumb to it as he moves Eggsy’s chin aside to shave the other side of his throat. There’s no way he hasn’t noticed already, but Eggsy doesn’t for the life of him know what to do with that certainty. He keeps his eyes on the spot on the ceiling that he’s been staring at for the past couple minutes, determinedly not looking directly at Harry, because Eggsy isn’t sure what will happen if he does. Best-case scenario, his eyes won’t be able to decide where to land before careening back to the safety of the ceiling, and Harry will think him a bit of a twat. Worst-case scenario, he won’t have enough self-control to keep from trying to kiss Harry and end up with ten centimetres of carbon steel embedded in his jugular for that.
Either way, Eggsy’s fucked.
Harry hums and makes another pass with the razor, carefully daubing at Eggsy’s chin with the blade. Still nothing on the runaway train that Eggsy’s heart has now become. He puts his fingers against Eggsy’s cheek and pushes his nose up to shave his upper lip, then palms the side of Eggsy’s throat and guides the razor along the bony length of his jawline in a series of short, deft sweeps.
This is fucking torture. Eggsy doesn’t move at all, doesn’t even dare to risk swallowing. He curls his hands into fists and grits his teeth, which Harry has to feel as well, but whatever — he’s already too far gone for anything he does to make much of a difference. If Harry was going to mention having caught on to how much Eggsy wants to find out what his tongue tastes like, it stands to reason that he already would have done so by this point, so Eggsy stops worrying about that. It’s typical, really, the things gentlemen don’t say at all costs to avoid making for awkward situations.
Another scrape of the razor down his chin, then it’s gone and Eggsy has all of ten seconds to be relieved before the second hot towel is wrung out and pressed to his face. He makes a muffled, confused noise, and Harry explains, “Now with just the oil, no cream.”
Like that makes things any easier. Eggsy listens to Harry rinse the razor in the sink and closes his eyes at the return of oily fingers to his face. Choosing not to look at all helps at first, but then after a while all he can picture is Harry’s slick fingers pressing somewhere else, and there goes that coping mechanism. The ceiling is still his go-to when he blinks Harry’s looming face back into view, and Eggsy takes a heavy breath, tensing up again when Harry resumes the shave from where he left off.
The second shave goes along faster than the first. Harry makes longer, swifter strokes with the razor, rasping it over whatever stubble left over from the first pass. His hand holds the side of Eggsy’s throat firmly, thumb lingering at the corner of his mouth. Eggsy can’t help but lean into his touch, and Harry steadies him again with a shush. Harry’s thumb slips down his chin, then, a movement matched by his eyes moving away from Eggsy’s face for a moment to roam down his robed body as the razor stills, and he licks his fucking lips like Eggsy isn’t already roughly five seconds away from completely losing his mind.
“Done,” Harry announces, and the fist clenched in Eggsy’s throat looses, but only just. The rising heat in his head is doused by a an ice-cold towel, this one just spread across the lower half of his face and used to rub away whatever oil and shaving cream that the razor hasn’t removed. Aftershave comes next, applied sparingly to the exquisitely smooth product of Harry’s labour and Eggsy’s endurance. Then, the chair is cranked back to an upright position, and it takes several seconds before Eggsy feels sufficiently composed to move again.
“What do you think?” Harry asks, indicating Eggsy’s reflection in the mirror. “Have a feel about, no need to be shy.”
Eggsy feels his face dumbly with both hands, but how smooth they are now is the last thing he’s thinking about. His reflection stares straight back at him, watching the same thing out of the corner of his eye: Harry washing his hands and stropping the razor against the leather of its pouch, inspecting the blade edge again to a nod of approval as water trickles down his bare wrists and forearms; fuck.
He is going to fucking chafe tonight, Eggsy swears. Assuming he manages to not die of blue balls before then, that is.
“Now, then.” Harry opens a cabinet and pulls out some more bottles, a tin, a handheld blow-dryer, and a fine-toothed comb. He tests the comb with his fingers, draws it through his own hair once, and beams at Eggsy. “Let’s see what we can do about your hair, shall we?”
Eggsy smiles weakly, sitting back and pressing his knees together as close as they will go.
***
After Harry is done fixing his hair, he moves on to Eggsy’s nails, which he spends too much time clucking his tongue at as he snips and files the edges down with more instruments that Eggsy ever knew could be involved in the art of nail care. There are clippers and brushes and scissors, assorted creams and liquids that get Harry’s fingers wet and bring Eggsy’s mind back to undesirable places once more; if he fidgets one too many times in the midst of the moisturising wash with Harry’s fingers rubbing gently over his own, neither of them do anything to acknowledge it.
Their time in the bathroom ends with a spritz of cologne under Eggsy’s chin, and Harry leads him back to the bedroom. Pieces of his suit are still laid out over the bedspread, arranged in sequence of wearing. The very first article catches Eggsy’s eye, and he’s confused for a second because he doesn’t remember bringing that with him, before he senses Harry’s hand in the provision and groans as he lifts it up to confirm what he already knows.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Harry regards Eggsy mildly. “Do you not normally wear undergarments with your suits?”
He can’t be serious. The boxer shorts are a sleek burgundy with stitches too fine to have been made by anything but hand, and the fabric is sinfully soft against Eggsy’s palms. He might be fairly new to the world of gentlemanly apparel, but by the texture of them he’s willing to bet they’re pure silk.
“Silk underwear,” Eggsy says, faintly. For all his best efforts not to think about what it would feel like against his cock, luxurious and satiny-smooth, a small thrill still rides up his spine. “Really, Harry?”
An amused smile, then Harry says, “Really. I can tell you they make quite an adventure for the lads.”
“Okay, you’re never allowed to refer to my bollocks like that ever again, period,” Eggsy groans, and lets the boxers drop on top of his folded shirt. “They’re not yours, are they?”
“Heavens, no,” Harry says primly, wrinkling his nose. “That would be most inappropriate. I bought them for you yesterday.”
Even so, what the shit. Eggsy crosses his arms, and now he’s stuck with the inexorable mental image of Harry sifting through mounds upon mounds of expensive underwear, feeling the material with his fingers, and hailing shop assistants like excuse me, I was just wondering if you could help me choose one that would be like getting blown by a velvet monster at all times of the day? He feels a wry smile coming on despite himself, and turns it into a sniff.
“If it makes you feel better, I wear silk undergarments all the time,” Harry tells him. “Personally, I find them very comfortable.”
“I did not need to know that,” Eggsy mutters, but he still tucks that nugget of information away in a small recess at the back of his mind. That doesn’t make him a pervert, does it? It’s not as though he’s stealing Harry’s used underwear like a panty sniffer and asphyxiating himself with them. Now that would be creepy. And also just a tiny bit sexy.
What?
No, seriously. What?
“Apologies,” Harry says, his smile widening fractionally. “I didn’t mean to distress you.”
Eggsy shrugs. He isn’t really distressed, just surprised and slightly put-out for getting a better impression of the stuff that Harry likes. The man’s a connoisseur through and through, a patron of the finer aspects of life, like opera and scented baths and straight-razor shaves and fucking silk underwear. With preferences like that, it’s not difficult to guess his type. He’d said so himself, didn’t he — he’d be up for fucking the Earl of Clarendon, or presumably anyone with a matching pedigree, and to that what would Eggsy have to show for him? Twenty-five years of chavvish upbringing that Eggsy would sooner cut an arm off than be ashamed of, and tone-deafness on the matters of culture and etiquette and other things he hasn’t had time to acquire a taste for. Harry’s patient with him, Eggsy knows, and he makes concessions that he wouldn’t for anyone else, but it hardly needs to be said: as he is, Eggsy doesn’t even come close to the breed of man he knows Harry would cherish.
“You can get dressed here,” Harry says. “I’ll go have a wash myself — shouldn’t take longer than half an hour. If you want, you can put the telly on. They’ve got a rerun of The Great British Bake-Off at five.”
“Okay,” Eggsy mumbles, unlacing the drawstrings of his robe. He’s suddenly not feeling very much for opera, or dressing up, or The Great British Bake-Off either. He wants to find a pub and drink himself stupid on lager, maybe get picked up or score a pity fuck he’ll hopefully be too shit-faced to feel pathetic about. But a promise is a promise, and he’ll never be able to live with himself if he lets Harry down where he could’ve helped it, and so Eggsy mopes around for as long as it takes for him to get his shit back together after he hears the shower running down the hallway, and with a resigned sigh, starts to slowly put his suit on.
***
The shower falls silent after ten minutes and Eggsy spends ten more on getting fully dressed, which leaves him with just the ten odd remaining to not think about Harry naked two doors away from him, water dripping from his hair and the clean smell of fresh soap and conditioner rising from his skin. He doesn’t think of Harry drying himself, or shaving in the mirror, and definitely not Harry jerking it down the shower drain, which doesn’t feel like something a gentleman would do, but hey, a guy’s allowed to wonder, okay? The point is, it takes an ungodly amount of discipline for Eggsy not to think of any of those things, and credit should always be given where credit is due.
Except the universe violently, vehemently disagrees by having Harry return from the bathroom in nothing but a towel, leaving him naked from the waist up.
Eggsy doesn’t have to look for longer than a second for whatever mental barriers he’s painstakingly constructed over the last ten minutes to crack and crash and burn, a teardown, instant catastrophe as he immediately rises to half-mast.
“Don’t you look grand,” Harry says to him, walking to his closet and sliding it open. “Mind if I get dressed here?”
“No,” Eggsy blurts, because he’s fucking weak and the chance to see Harry in the buff for the first time in his life is too precious to pass over. He’s already been treated to a decent eyeful of chest and arms and back — Harry is all muscle in a way that comes across as impressive without being grotesquely hulking, replete with a dusting of hair from his sternum to his navel — but he can’t help but want more. Who could, in Eggsy’s position? Nobody could possibly be that much of a sad little puritan, nobody.
“Brilliant.” Harry’s got his own pair of boxers and an all-black tuxedo on a hanger now, setting them out on his bed in the same arrangement he’d used to organise Eggsy’s suit. Then, he tugs the towel from around his waist, lets it fall to the floor, and Eggsy’s mouth goes from bone-dry to watering like a fountain so quickly he’s almost drooling with it. Harry’s cock, Jesus Christ. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. He has a lovely length on him, and he’s thick, too, thicker than most other men Eggsy’s arsehole remembers accommodating in his day. Eggsy zeroes in, stares and stares and he doesn’t even care that he’s being immodestly blatant about his rubbernecking, up until Harry slides his boxers up his legs, past his thighs, and an indomitable burst of arousal gleefully kicks Eggsy in the goolies.
The torture of being shaved by Harry is nothing compared to watching him dress. He moves meticulously and with purpose, not a single motion wasted as he buttons his shirt, smoothens down the starched collar and twists a bowtie into place in what feels like record time. The trousers come on next, covering up Harry’s long legs and the jet-black sheen of his underwear — he’s fastidious if nothing else, Eggsy thinks, for having colour-coordinated both their outfits down to that level of detail. Braces follow after he’s zipped up, two long dark straps that Harry snaps onto his waistband and adjusts to his height. They’re not the holsters, at the very least. Eggsy’s brain would be already melting out his nose and ears otherwise.
Harry’s still not done, however. He gets into his waistcoat as well, the additional layer doing nothing to obscure the definitions of his trim body, only accentuating them. A flash of polished silver alerts Eggsy to the pocket watch that Harry secures to the lowest buttonhole of his waistcoat and tucks away. Before he finishes with the clincher of his suit jacket, Harry produces a pair of onyx cufflinks and fastens his shirt cuffs skillfully as Eggsy’s stomach performs a couple more somersaults. He knows all about Harry’s fingers and how they would feel in his hair, over his nipples, pressed to his lips and up against his throat. Even at a distance they’re mesmerising to watch, and Eggsy wonders about what it’d be like to get to kiss or suck on them.
A signet ring adorns the ring finger of Harry’s left hand, and then he finally, finally pops his jacket on, dons his glasses and turns to face Eggsy, arms spread out in an extravagant gesture. “What do you think?” he asks, smiling broadly.
Eggsy isn’t thinking, which is sort of the problem here — all he knows is that his tongue is suddenly too thick for his mouth and his cock is hard as a fucking knife, and the stupid silk boxers aren’t helping one whit. “Uh,” he says, still light-years beyond the realm of coherent speech. His thoughts sputter and fizzle and stay entirely offline, and Eggsy’s left feeling like the human equivalent of one of those computer error messages nobody ever wants to see and knows how to resolve.
Harry must mistake his verbal constipation for diffidence, because he says, “Oh, do you need a better look?” and walks from around the bed to stand right in front of Eggsy, giving him a better, more eye-popping view of his suit in all its crowning glory, how it fits him so perfectly that Eggsy wants to weep. “How about now?”
The standard range of compliments tempts for an easy resolution, but Eggsy has never been one for cop-outs, or insincerity. No, straight-talk is more his thing, no nonsense or needless mincing of words, just pure honesty and candour with a side of public school grit around the edges. It shouldn’t be so difficult to tell Harry that he’s the most beautiful man Eggsy has ever laid eyes on, or how he’s practically ruined Eggsy for anyone else — five, ten, fifteen years from now Eggsy could meet another person who’s just as knock-dead gorgeous and wears suits like they're lethal weapons and smiles at Eggsy like he’s the light of his life and drinks green tea and gives his pets endearingly dumb names like Mr. Pickles, and after all that they could never be the one for him so long as Harry Hart still walked the planet.
Fingers at the side of his face bring Eggsy back to earth and straight into the shock of the fact of Harry touching him, trying to peer into his eyes and asking, “You alright, Eggsy? Still with me?”
Eggsy swallows, and swallows again before shaking his head. “Yeah,” he mumbles, letting his gaze fall to Harry’s chest. “M’fine.”
The worry in Harry’s expression clears. “Oh, good. Thought for a second that you were having a stroke. You’re not smelling burnt toast by any chance, are you?”
“No. Why?”
Harry chuckles. “Just a little joke. No need to worry.”
Oh, Eggsy worries, all right. He worries that this will be the extent of their intimacy, that he won’t be able to let it go, that their relationship will be reduced to Eggsy tagging along on operas and concerts every chance he gets for the hope of something like this happening again. He’s starved for Harry, loves him with all of his being, loves him more than Eggsy knows is healthy or fair to himself, and the thought of having his own happiness come to hinge solely on Harry feeling the same way about him makes Eggsy so angry he could spit.
“Fine. Let’s go,” Eggsy growls. “Opera. Whatever.”
“It’s only half-past five, we’ve still got two hours left,” Harry says, nodding at the clock on his bedroom wall. “I was thinking we could go have dinner first. Maybe at six?”
If Harry’s itinerary for the evening didn’t make very much sense before, now Eggsy’s convinced that he’s just making it up as they go along. “Well, what’re we supposed to do until then?”
Of all things that could answer that, he’s not expecting Harry to hum thoughtfully and take a step closer to him, filling Eggsy’s vision with his proximity. Eggsy’s first instinct is to back away, but he makes the mistake of looking up and Harry’s answering stare freezes him in place.
“Don’t have anything planned, but I’m open to suggestions,” Harry says pleasantly. “Got any ideas you’d like to propose?”
“Uh.” The space separating them manages to be too little and far too much at the same time, though Eggsy is increasingly swaying towards the latter. “I dunno, like. Er. We could, y’know —”
“Yes? We could?”
Fuck, Eggsy thinks, inadvertently answering several things at once. There’s just about the right amount of space between them, now, and Eggsy knows that he really, really should move away, put some distance between them. He doesn’t. Harry’s eyes are fixed on him and Eggsy thinks that Jurassic Park was on to something in that area — not that it would do him any more good, considering how both his legs feel like they’ve turned to stone.
“I’m waiting, Eggsy,” Harry says, benign expectation in his voice.
Eggsy stares back, lost for words. Harry sighs, a soft, affectionate little sound, and he curls a hand into the lapel of Eggsy’s jacket, stroking the fabric with his thumb. The corner of his mouth curls into a confident smirk, and Eggsy feels his own fall open.
“Perhaps I might be able to offer a humble suggestion, if it so pleases you,” Harry fucking purrs, leaning in until his breath is hot and damp against Eggsy’s face.
Something in his lagging brain clicks. There is still not enough air in the room to reoxygenate with, but when Eggsy forces a stumbling breath in and Harry arches an sharp brow, brown eyes darkening with unmistakable intent, in that singular moment, he knows.
“Oh my fucking god,” he gasps, and surges forward to crush his mouth to Harry’s, putting enough force behind it to bend him back, just a little. Harry grunts into his mouth, steadies them both and returns the kiss, one hand capturing Eggsy’s tie to pull him close and the other cradling his cheek to angle their lips together. The contact is strikingly firm and warm and perfect, from their jostling thighs to Harry’s hand at his face to the kiss that neither of them seem to be willing to break for the moment.
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Harry murmurs over Eggsy’s lips, fingers brushing the nape of his neck. “Top of the class, you are.” He kisses Eggsy again, and it’s little more than a brush of lips this time round, but then he ducks down to press his face into Eggsy’s neck, nuzzling and kissing and sucking at the shaved skin there until Eggsy is so turned on that it fucking hurts.
“Oh god,” Eggsy moans. The room spins. Everything is spinning, but he doesn’t want any of it to stop. He grips Harry’s shoulders and cants his head to offer up his neck further and mouths a sloppy kiss against Harry’s hair, breathing the scent of his shampoo — the same one he’d used on Eggsy, their shampoo — and underneath it all, Harry himself.
“Aren’t we in a blasphemous mood today,” Harry remarks thickly below Eggsy’s ear, to which he presses his soft mouth, his wet tongue. The first hint of a lick sends Eggsy twitching. He clenches his jaw, anticipating a second, but it’s teeth that find his jawline instead, heralding a veritable cascade of nips and open-mouthed kisses that grow hungrier the closer they migrate back to Eggsy’s trembling lips. Eggsy takes charge of the kiss that follows, coaxes out Harry’s tongue and sucks on it with a moan that drops straight down into his cock, which is not only struggling against the front of his trousers but Harry’s prominent erection as well.
Now there’s an idea. He gropes Harry’s arse and bucks against him, pressing the evidence of his own arousal into Harry’s groin, and — yes, Harry responds splendidly, snarling out a collection of angry syllables and shoving his tongue in Eggsy’s mouth and reaching low to work him through his trousers without mercy. Eggsy yelps and tries to flinch away, but Harry’s strong arm around his back makes it clear that there’s no escaping what he has sown. He can’t even sob properly, what with Harry kissing the living daylights out of him and stealing the air straight from his lungs; it turns impossibly, breathlessly deeper with the advent of more tongue, more lip-biting, and the clacking of teeth.
"You — prick,” Eggsy hisses, tries to twist free. Harry just holds him all the more tighter, heat in his expression and blazing across his lips as he continues to plunder Eggsy’s mouth. He looks too smug even for a man who’s getting precisely what he wants, and it makes Eggsy want to hold him down and fuck it right out of him. See if Harry will still have the capacity to keep up the posh bastard routine when Eggsy’s fingering his arse open and sucking his orgasm out through his cock, that’ll show him.
“Mm, yes. I take it that you liked what you saw?”
“Didn’t know you weren’t running a look but don’t touch policy,” Eggsy snipes back.
“Evidently.” Another squeeze over Eggsy’s straining trousers, and Eggsy curls his toes into the carpet. “I was wondering how long it would take you to figure that out, as it happens.”
“Just fucking tell me next time. I’m not a goddamn mind reader.”
“And yet here we are,” Harry says, hand frisking up Eggsy’s belly to rest on his chest. He hooks his left foot behind Eggsy’s calf, sweeps him closer for another kiss. Eggsy moves to let his weight slant against Harry, and like this he can focus less on keeping himself upright and more on rutting; the delectable heat of Harry’s stomach is too much to resist, and Eggsy may as well be J.B with a throw pillow for all he can’t stop rubbing his cock on it. Another minute and he’ll come like this, he’s aware. Bundled in Harry’s arms with all sorts of pornographic noises breaking from him, and not a single article of clothing shed in the process.
“I think it’s about time we put that mouth of yours to better use, don’t you?” Harry asks, and he sounds infuriatingly calm about it, but, ah, right there — the tiniest sliver of something like lust dancing through. It’s still fucking impressive, how he has that much control to wave around when Eggsy’s positively salivating for Harry’s cock. He wants it so bad, his own cock wants Harry too, and Eggsy paws at him, paws and whimpers until Harry gives in with a guffaw, shuffling backwards until they reach the corner of his bed and he sits down as Eggsy removes his glasses and sinks to his knees.
Eggsy struggles with Harry’s trousers for too long before he realises that he’s forgotten about the braces, and he fumbles with those as well before Harry takes pity on him and does away with them himself. It’s straightforward from then on out, flies and buttons and the rustling of fabric before quality cotton gives way to dark silk, and Eggsy’s face heats up another couple notches. Christ, those thighs, that bulge. He peels back Harry’s underwear and a moan tumbles out of him at the sight of Harry’s cock, which juts out proudly as soon as it slips free of the elastic band, the skin retracting back and the head already purpling and glossy with precome.
“God, fuck,” he breathes, and puts his lips to the tip, suckling at the clear fluid oozing from the slit. Harry inhales sharply above him but doesn’t react any more than that, the obstinate fucker. So slighted, Eggsy curls his fingers around the base and laps Harry into his mouth, taking him in up to halfway down his shaft. All is warm and muzzy where he is, the organic smell of Harry better than any scented bath. Precome leaks sour-bitter on his tongue, a musky contrast to the faint alkaline taste of soap-wrought cleanliness. His thoughts leap to Harry washing his cock in the shower, scrubbing at it thoroughly with both his hands, and Eggsy moans around the hard flesh in his mouth, dropping lower until Harry’s cock bumps against his tonsils and he gags without meaning to.
“Easy, Eggsy,” Harry murmurs, gripping Eggsy’s hair with his hands and giving him a gentle, prohibitory tug. “There’s no need to rush, we’ve plenty of time.”
Yeah, right. Eggsy’s wanted this for too long not to get ahead of himself now that he can, and Harry probably doesn’t understand that yet, but he will, eventually. If it takes using every trick in Eggsy’s book on cocksucking like, say, deep-throating him again like that, or licking kisses up and down his pulsing length as he feels up Harry's balls, just like that, then Eggsy couldn’t care any less if he’s going to end up choking on a hot salty load, or have it all over his face, just so long as Harry gets into his head the slightest inkling of what he does to Eggsy without even trying.
It does seem to work, mainly because Harry stops pulling him up by his hair and starts groaning, which is the hottest thing Eggsy has ever heard, that is, until the hands at the top of his head tighten and Harry’s pushing deep into his mouth, pressing Eggsy’s head down and forcing him to take it, and the lack of warning has Eggsy left choking out whine after desperate whine long after Harry’s cock has been sheathed fully in his throat. Interspersed with the breathy sigh that Harry lets out, his own strangled pleading threatens to boot Eggsy right over the edge before Harry’s voice brings him back.
“Good,” Harry gasps. He fucks into Eggsy’s throat, maintaining a slow, insistent push and threatening to suffocate with his girth, and as Eggsy struggles to breathe all he wonders is why he just wants more. “Very good, Eggsy. You’re doing very well.”
Eggsy would weep if he could, but he’s too dizzy and still can’t articulate anything past the piteous little mewls that he’s making low in his chest for want of other noises possible with what air he has left. Harry’s right — it’s good for them both, so good that Eggsy almost can’t believe it, and he wants to stay like this for as long as they can, him down on his knees with Harry’s cock filling up his mouth. This has to become a thing, it must. All will be right in the world if he gets to be fed Harry Hart’s cock on a regular basis, Eggsy just knows it.
Harry keeps him gagging for a few more seconds before releasing his hold on Eggsy, allowing him to withdraw sufficiently to inhale without pulling off completely. Harry’s cock bulges against his cheek, distracting him from the dull ache throbbing in his throat. The feeling isn’t just good, it’s fucking brilliant. He sucks deliriously, running the tip of his tongue under the crown and licking at Harry’s foreskin to the taste of more precome, and keeps going as his own climax drags closer and closer.
“Let’s try something different,” he hears Harry say, before palms at his cheeks lift him up back into Harry’s arms; Eggsy hisses with discontent, grabbing instinctively for Harry’s cock, and is rewarded with a kiss and a chuckle as Harry croons, “Don’t you worry about that. Everything in good time.”
“I want,” Eggsy whinges, not having had anywhere near enough of Harry to be even the smallest bit sated. He wraps his arms around Harry’s torso and buries his face in his chest and moans his need against Harry like the spoilt child he’s felt like all afternoon. Instant gratification comes in the form of warm lips at his temple and breath fluting down his neck, Harry’s fond voice shaping reassurance into his ear, and that’s just, god. Eggsy loves him. Irrevocably, slavishly so.
“I know, Eggsy,” Harry laughs, stroking his hair. “I will endeavour to make it worth your patience. If you would be so kind, trousers off and lie down for me, please.”
Belts should be simpler to deal with than braces, but Eggsy’s fingers stumble all the same as he undoes his trousers and slides them down to his knees with the boxers. He doesn’t lie all the way down just yet, propping himself up on his elbows to watch Harry move round the bed and return with one of his pillows and a foil packet.
“You don’t have to —” Eggsy says, suddenly frantic, and Harry shushes him as he sets the pillow down near the edge of his bed, plumping it up.
“It’s for you,” Harry informs him, tearing the packet open and fishing out the condom inside.
“I’m clean,” Eggsy insists. “I don’t need —”
“I’m aware,” Harry says, wagging a stern finger at Eggsy. “But be that as it may, if you get anything on that lovely suit of yours, or — heaven forbid — my bedspread, then know I shall be very, very cross with you indeed.”
Of course Harry would be able to make a reprimand sound sexy, and like a challenge if Eggsy’s ever heard one. If he decides to resist — if he disobeys Harry, then. Well. There will be ramifications, and he thrills at the thought of all the things Harry would do if Eggsy got him riled up enough. Nonetheless, he lets Harry roll the condom onto him and thieves a kiss, grinning at the chiding sounds Harry makes. He follows Harry’s instruction, shifting to lie on the pillow, “A little bit more, Eggsy,” scoots further until his shoulders are where he would normally rest his head, which is now tilted back at an angle.
“Perfect,” Harry murmurs, and Eggsy cranes his neck to look at him, hair rustling against the bed. It’s not the most comfortable position to lie in, but Eggsy can ogle the full span of Harry’s thighs and cock and the top half of his suit, albeit the wrong way up, without straining his neck too much. It’s a sick view, more so for the tiny smile Harry is giving him — Eggsy’s a cracking mess at the moment, he knows, lying on Harry’s bed with both hands around his latex-encased cock, stroking from the base with a slow, needy desperation.
“Hurry up with it already,” Eggsy snarls, giving himself another flaccid tug that doesn’t lead very much anywhere. There’s only one thing that will do it for him right now and he’s looking right at it, so close and yet so far from where it needs to be.
“Please, Eggsy. Manners, goodness gracious.”
“Please,” Eggsy begs for the sake of propriety, an agony when he’s nothing short of panting for it.
“That’s better,” Harry says, and Eggsy opens his mouth, wide and eager, for Harry to slide his cock home, seating it at the back of Eggsy’s throat once more. Jesus fuck, it’s even hotter the second time round, and Eggsy moans as his eyes flutter and roll back in his head. It’s a new feeling, having a cock curve against his tongue rather than over it, and he chokes as he tries to swallow the unfamiliar sensation away, throat clenching convulsively onto Harry’s cock. When he has his bearings again, Eggsy breathes in and tries to relax his jaw, pleasure-driven, just so Harry has that much more wiggle room to fuck his throat as he pleases.
“Magnificent,” Harry groans, his hand at Eggsy’s shoulder tightening to the point of pain. He snaps his hips and rocks lazily into Eggsy’s mouth, rubbing the glans against his tongue, the stretched skin bitter and sticky. “That’s the way. Your mouth — ahh… absolutely exquisite, yes.”
Eggsy can’t, just can’t — he whimpers and closes his lips around Harry, tears in his eyes, and he feels his cock throb between his palms. Not yet, not just yet. He will wait for Harry to come first, because that feels like the only way he’ll be deserving of it, and so he holds off. Instead, he continues with sucking and tonguing to the best of his ability, inviting Harry to thrust slickly in and out and talk him through it, splendid, my dear Eggsy, simply remarkable, take a little bit more, yes, almost there, now. His whole body is on fucking fire and there’s a screeching like a train whistle going off in his head, and yes, it feels exactly like that moment, the memory of being tied down and almost run over, but with this — he wants it, oh, fuck yes, he wants this to happen, wants Harry to happen inside him.
He presses his head harder against the bed, gaining those few more precious millimetres of Harry and staving back the urge to cough. Another benefit of having his throat fucked like this becomes apparent — with a normal blowjob, he wouldn’t be able to see the look on Harry’s face, the one right there that Eggsy clamours to get a better view of, failing which he returns to trying to discover the best way about deep-throating a cock upside down. Maybe if he does, then more of that ironclad restraint will crumble and he’ll have Harry bang out of his mind like a Rocky Horror Picture Show character, sans the singing and dancing and fishnet stockings.
(Harry and lingerie — sometimes Eggsy hates how his mind works.)
That doesn’t happen. Harry sinks deep into him with a sigh, his knee coming up to rest next to Eggsy’s ear as he rubs his hand in circles over Eggsy’s heaving chest. Then he sneaks it into the folds of his jacket, past the buttons of his shirt, and plucks at Eggsy’s left nipple with his forefinger and thumb — too much to take — adds on a vicious scratch with his perfectly manicured nails — too fucking much to take — and Eggsy’s yell stoppers up behind Harry’s cock as his orgasm hits him, trucklike, and it goes on and on and on.
“You rather showed your hand with the bathing, I’m afraid,” Harry gasps above him, when Eggsy’s done pumping into the condom and can only lie slack and senseless, dozy brain chemicals making him twitch. He's reeling with over-stimulation, all the thoughts knocked out of his head, unable to comprehend anything apart from Harry’s hand and Harry’s cock, which is still occupying his mouth like it now lives there, and that's just fine by Eggsy. Property of Harry Hart, and he’s on his way there, his mouth just so happening to be a great place to start.
"That's a lovely sight," Harry murmurs. His palm flattens over Eggsy's heaving chest, fingertips and nails still worrying at sweat-damp skin under his shirt. "You're terribly sensitive, aren't you, Eggsy? It's very telling — your pleasure is a beautiful thing, a marvel to witness, I must say. Spectacular, even."
Eggsy tries to agree but can only just grunt around Harry's cock in tacit assent. He feels wrung through, burnt out and fucked for life, except the heavy length sitting against the roof of his mouth reminds him that his job isn't over yet, and so he gulps to work feeling back into his jaw and air into his lungs before he's sucking again, riding the crest of climax before it fades away completely. Once or twice he uses his teeth to be a bastard, because why the hell not, gets his collarbones pinched painfully as punishment, and that's fantastic, it's fucking worth it.
A couple more pushes in, then Harry is cupping Eggsy’s face with his fingers and murmuring, “Now is the time,” his cock hardening and jerking inside Eggsy’s mouth, right before his breathing catches and he comes down Eggsy’s throat in thick, heavy spurts that have Eggsy swallowing frenziedly so as to get every last gluey drop of it. Gravity helps with that, gathering each pulse of come at the back of his tongue for him, and it’s just as well because Eggsy can’t be bothered with the effort of that, too busy with swiping at Harry’s cock with his tongue to make sure he’s clean before Harry pulls out.
He’s helped to a sitting position soon after that, the condom on his softened cock removed and binned before Harry returns the favour with a handful of tissues and helps him back into his trousers. When they’re dressed again, Eggsy sighs and lets himself crumple against Harry, back into the clasp of his waiting arms. Considering the circumstances, Harry's repose is astounding, but Eggsy thinks he can feel the post-coital buzz filtering from him, mingling with his own like a contact high. Still too many clothes for his taste, but this is acceptable, and they’ll have all the time in the world to deal with that, soon enough.
“You’re still a prick,” Eggsy mumbles. The words are raspy and rough-edged, though not as much as Eggsy thinks they should be.
Harry pets the back of his head. “Sticks and stones, Eggsy,” he admonishes, seeping a kiss into his hair, where Eggsy can feel him smiling. “Sticks and stones.”
“Mmph,” Eggsy intones, losing himself for a bit. Harry’s bed is tantalisingly soft under him, and he wants to get to know it better, preferably with Harry next to him.
"I told you four hours would be necessary, did I not?"
Nowhere near enough, now that Eggsy could really use a nap. He has a crick in his jaw and his neck isn't the best it's felt and his throat feels sore all over, which shouldn't make him contemplate a second round so quickly, but there you go. He slides a kiss over Harry's neck, just above the junction of collar and skin, and feels an amused hum thrumming against his lips.
"Eggsy, love. Are you still there?"
Just barely, enough to drowse indistinct, moody noises into the velvet of the dark jacket tickling his cheek.
Harry laughs, "You're not drifting off now, are you?"
"M'tired," is all Eggsy has the time or energy for, and tries to let Harry's affection engulf him entirely like bathwater, like a blanket he never wants to have to take off. He quite likes the sound of that, being wrapped up in Harry. Has a nice ring to it, a pleasing thought to hold on to, warm against his sleepy brain as he cuddles closer to Harry's chest, where it's snug and comfy.
“There’s still dinner,” Harry reminds Eggsy. “And the opera, don’t forget. You can sleep when we get back tonight.”
He’s cool with dinner, but Eggsy groans at the mention of opera and turns his face into Harry’s shoulder, refusing to rise to his feet. It doesn’t matter, in the end, because Harry hauls him up bodily, ignoring the host of whining that follows, and pushes Eggsy’s glasses back onto his face. When Eggsy tries to protest again, he is immediately, soundly kissed into silence, and that’s okay, whatever he was going to say is nowhere near as important as Harry’s hand fondling his bum, their noses sliding wetly together, and the unyielding pressure of a sumptuous mouth over his own.
It’s a worthwhile sacrifice, Eggsy thinks, for learning to love like this.
Harry pulls back and smiles, and Eggsy’s heart yawns open for him. “Come now, or we’ll be late,” he says, his hand settling at Eggsy’s lower back as if leading him a dance, and side by side, they leave the bedroom together.