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Chapter Text

Harry

The world was reduced to this; the ballet, it’s bells and whistles. Harry sat as still as a statue, lest he be jostled, though he acknowledged the unlikelihood. He waited out the crescendo’s with hardly a clenched jaw, but there was no sigh either, when the music settled, and the lovers fell into each other’s arms.

He recalled the days when he’d sit on the edge of his seat, eyes feasting upon the costume design and dancing commands of the stage. But now, opened eyes stared unseeingly. Merlin had tried, but Harry already knew that this had been a bad idea.

‘It is the same script, but the performers get better year by year. It’s spectacular!’

‘I heard that a French artiste had been hired from Paris to choreograph the dances.’  

‘Mhm, really? I did think there was a certain nuanced flair. That would explain it, then.’ 

 ‘I’m sorry.’ Merlin.

 Harry’s head made a minute tilt at the words, but he did otherwise acknowledge the presence of the man. He’d read from his watch that there was at least ten more minutes of their break remaining, and he was determined to enjoy his scotch, and the relative avoidance of his company, in private.

Harry should have known that Merlin was not so easily dissuaded by rudeness, though. ‘I had not thought this through,’ said Merlin, his voice at Harry’s opposite now. ‘You needed to get out of the house. And you’ve always liked the opera.’ A long sigh, only interrupted by the clink of ice cubes against glass. ‘Harry, I am sorry–’

‘The apologies do not suit you.’ Harry preferred the man that Merlin had been. Stiff-backed, and more likely than not, to stab himself than to claim a mistake as his own, mostly because he was not a man known to make mistakes. But somewhere between the fade of Harry’s world from light to dark, Merlin had grown a conscience on his shoulder, so much so that it felt like a small mercy that Harry did not have to be subjected to the sight of the other man’s pity, when he heard so much of it in his voice.

‘I should have planned something else. Perhaps, a more orchestral performance, one without so much focus on dance and costume design–’

‘I can still enjoy the music,’ Harry said, before the man could go off on a tangent of what-could-have-been’s. ‘There is still that.’  To a sharpened degree, in fact. Harry’s senses were compensating for the lack of one, and it might have been helpful, if he was now not inclined to eavesdropping on conversations that were just too close. Some people did not realise that the loss of one sense, did not mean the loss of all.

‘You look like you might stab the first person who asks about your evening.’

‘I am already holding my tongue; I can hardly be blamed for my expression.’

Harry would rather not be here. Surrounded by faces he could not see. What was the use of smelling strong cologne and sweet perfume, if he could not attach it to masculine or feminine features? His sense of spatial awareness had improved, but still it felt like walking through a minefield, one too long step away from walking into a wall, or down a flight of stairs. Merlin had already assured Harry that he would not let that happen, but it was not the same as being able to avoid the danger oneself.

He was not meant to be bitter over his past, as his therapist had encouraged, but oftentimes, Harry found himself doing just that. There were many things that one took for granted, and it was never a wonderful feeling to be personally acquainted with it.

They returned to the Opera and Harry closed his eyes, allowed himself to sink further into the seats, to relax his facial muscles. But no sooner had the orchestra reached a tempest, whispers tickled at his ear.

‘The poor man. He was attacked, I heard.’

‘How will he ever produce his art again?’

‘Excuse me,’ said Merlin, his voice as cold as the ice that had chilled Harry’s scotch earlier. ‘But if you could quieten yourselves, that would be much appreciated.’

Harry exhaled, but his breath came out like a rattle. This was a bad idea, his mind played at a mantra to him, so much so that he could not hear the rest of the performance.  He shouldn’t have come.

Harry

Sunlight warmed his skin. He’d been sat still for a few minutes now, book abandoned upon his thigh. Harry tried to remain present, as his mindfulness instructed, but his thoughts often got away from him. If he was not imagining a room and its contents, to make up for what he could not picture, then he was thinking of before.

One might think that two years was enough time to go through a moment from every direction, but the imagination was a limitless pit. Harry wondered about the green suit he’d wore that night, the drink’s he’d taken from passing trays. Had he been too lulled by the piano music and its pianist? Cufflinks could often speak to the measure of a man; why hadn’t he looked at Valentine’s wrist?

Useless questions, for a fate that would not change. He had been shot in the face, at point blank range. He had lost his sight, both eyes, though not the eyeballs. Small mercies, some might say. Harry thought that he should have just died that day.

‘You’ve not been switching on your house alarm,’ said Merlin. The soles of his shoes on tiled floors sounded from Harry’s back, so he presumed that the man had just come from the corridor; Harry had not realised when he’d left the room. ‘Would you prefer that I set it for a specific time?’

‘And risk annoying the neighbourhood when I inevitably forget to switch it off?’

‘Harry–’

‘If you set my phone to remind me, then I’ll remember to switch it on.’

 The palm that had not been in the direct ray of sunlight felt cold to the touch; Harry folded it against the knitwear at his stomach.

‘There’s been a series of break-ins, in the area,’ said Merlin. To Harry’s left now. The chair squeaked under the weight of him. ‘So far, only at the vacant houses.’

‘Then I am quite fine,’ Harry said, already knowing where Merlin was headed.

‘You keep the house as if it is vacant. The curtains are never drawn until I draw them.’

‘What is the point? It is not like I would be able to tell the difference.’

A long sigh; Merlin had become proficient at those in the last year. They were often heavy, weary and in response to something Harry had said. The frequency rather made Harry feel as if someone else was inhabiting Merlin’s voice, speaking in his voice, and harassing Harry. Harry preferred it when the man had been an emotionless bastard; it’d be easier to believe that he was who he said he was, and not someone Harry was only pretending to know.

‘If I cannot feel safe in my own home, Adlehair…’ Harry started, but then soon trailed off. He had no memories to distance him, but the absence of those memories was as much a stalling point. ‘Then I will not feel safe anywhere else.’

‘I’ll tell Martha to also open the windows in the rooms that aren’t being used,’ Merlin said after a pause. He sounded as exhausted as Harry often felt. ‘You do not want to revisit the idea of having someone stay the night with you.’

‘No,’ said Harry, and he was annoyed that Merlin would bring it up again. But before an argument could rise, Merlin said,

‘I’ll call you at the time that you would usually head off to bed. So, you can switch on the alarm.’

‘Why not do it remotely? You have the ability.’ Harry pulled at a loose thread in his blanket. ‘And it’ll save me the faff of having to talk at the tablet.’

‘I’d prefer that you do these things yourself,’ said Merlin. ‘You can manage the stairs. Open the windows on the upper floors.’

Merlin was committing to a task in vain. He spoke of Harry managing his freedoms, but did not understand the claustrophobia that came with being trapped behind one’s eyeballs. Yes. Harry could now navigate the ground floor without stubbing his toe to hell. But it did not much matter if he could not leave the house and not find himself walking into the road, an incoming car beeping at his carelessness.

Harry oftentimes found himself thinking about just that; walking into the road, standing still at the approach of a vehicle. If metal met body, then Merlin would no longer be burdened by his guilt, and pity, and his relentless effort to make Harry feel like the man he once had been. Bad opera experiences be damned.

‘James had been sent some sketches from Rome to review,’ Merlin said. ‘Would you like me to describe them to you?’

‘It’s time for lunch,’ Harry said, his fingers pressing over the raised nods on his watch, so to read the time. ‘How about we order some Thai?’

Eggsy  

 The world was reduced to this; the fridge, Eggsy’s thundering heartbeat and Dean’s spittle jabbing him in the face. There were also the burgeoning bruises and Eggsy futile attempts to keep the punches away from his face. He already had a split lip though, and blood in his mouth. And to think that this morning, he’d thought he’d have a better day than the day before.

 ‘I didn’t say nothing! Swear down. I didn’t!’

 ‘You better not have been speaking to no, coppers, Eggsy. I’ll have you strung up before Wednesday if you did–’

‘I didn’t! Ask Rottie and his lot. I was with them the whole morning!’

‘Then how the fuck did them coppers know to search Poodle’s car–’

 ‘Dean, beg off him, would you?’ Michelle. Eggsy was actually surprised to hear his mum’s voice; she’d been sprawled over the settee, glazed eyes when he walked through the door. He hadn’t thought her sober enough to hear his screams, if she wasn’t coherent enough to make sense of Daisy’s cries. ‘He said he didn’t do it.’

‘Well, Eggsy’s a liar, ain’t he? Aint’ you?’

‘I ain’t no snitch,’ Eggsy said, and tried to shove Dean off again. It didn’t work; only got him a forearm to the neck and Eggsy choked, straining away from the limb. ‘Dean, I swear it,’ he said, as honest as he could be, since he was telling the fucking truth anyway. ‘I was with Rottie the whole morning. I didn’t have no time to go speaking with the cops.’

‘You’ve had a thing against Rottie’s car.’

Eggsy’s laugh came out a bit hysterical. ‘That don’t mean I’m going sell us out to the blue lights.’

Dean stared at him. Sunken eyes in a wrinkled face; the type of mug only a mother would love (and only if she partially blind). Eggsy didn’t much understand what his mum had found attractive about this man, but she’d been infatuated enough to marry him, then stick beside him even when his temper got the better of him and fists started to reign. Years later, Michelle was with the bottle, more than she was without and Eggsy was left to defend himself against a crime he hadn’t committed. He’d committed other crimes, to be fair but grassing on Dean’s shit wasn’t one of them. The broken arm at eleven carried its warning even till now.

‘You’ll be going out with Luke and his lot tonight,’ said Dean. He stepped away from Eggsy, taking his arm with him, though Eggsy didn’t move yet; the man was springy, no matter what his pudgy form implied. ‘I’ve got a dent in me pocket and some pissed off buyers. You’re going to work to fill in the hole, Eggsy. You don’t come back here till you do, or I swear you’ll have it.’

Eggsy didn’t argue the point. He didn’t say he was knackered and starving, aching in places he’d never before thought he could ache. Someone had snitched, and it didn’t matter that it wasn’t Eggsy’s fault, Eggsy would have to fix it. Usually, that meant selling some more, to make up for what the coppers had seized.

Eggsy pressed his tongue against the split in his lip and took his leave when Dean turned away; to his mum, who only had eyes for Dean and his puckered lips.

Disgust wasn’t enough to cover Eggsy’s bruises, but he was used to the bile and swallowed it down. It helped that he had Daisy to smile at.

‘Uppsy Daisy,’ he called to her, picking her from her crib. Eggsy didn’t have to get close to get a whiff of her nappy but still leaned away. ‘Fuck. That’s rank.’

Daisy sniffled, but at least she wasn’t crying anymore. She was fine, Eggsy thought. Just as well as she could be, given the situation. He got her cleaned up and changed, then made her something to chug down. She was hungry; God knows when the last time Michelle had fed her. And Eggsy didn’t want to leave his baby sister in the flat alone tonight, not with the sounds he could hear coming from the living room now.

So, he settled her against one arm and reached for his phone; it took five rings before Jamal’s face came up on the screen. ‘Bruv. I need you to do me a massive favour–’

‘Hi, Daisy,’ said Ryan, sticking his face against Jamal and inadvertently shoving it out of the screen’s reach. ‘Ah, mate. She’s gotten bigger, hasn’t she?’

‘You saw her last week,’ Jamal said.

‘Yeah, and she’s gotten bigger since then, yeah? It’s like with my cousin. Saw her babe one day and the next, the kid’s about ready to head off to primary.’

‘I think you’re confusing her kid with the other one. She has two. Remember?’

‘I know what the fuck I was seeing, yeah? Not all kids look the same, you know–’

‘Bruvs, shut the fuck up,’ Eggsy interrupted, before they could get to bickering like a friends-with-benefits relationship. He wasn’t exactly sure about those two, and being together wasn’t the first thing he’d even think of. Except that Ryan had already told him about what happened between him and Jamal during the summer after their GCSE’s; from separate parties, Eggsy’ been sworn in to never mention the incident again, not if he valued his pinkie finger.

‘What’s up, Eggsy?’ Jamal asked, having taken the phone back from Ryan. Ryan grumbled in the background, but he was too quiet for Eggsy to hear.

‘Mum’s sloshed and Dean’s got me working tonight; I don’t wanna leave Daisy here–’

‘Bring her over. We’ll look after her.’

‘Mate. You’re a real one.’ Eggsy sighed, a weight lifted up from his already weighty shoulders. He didn’t know what he would have done if he didn’t have Jamal and Ryan around and he didn’t much want to think about.

‘You’ve got blood on your shirt,’ Jamal pointed out, neutral in toned in a way that meant he wasn’t going to push if Eggsy didn’t say anything. It was the same face he wore when Ryan came around with blackening eyes and bruised ribs. Eggsy liked to think that they’d gotten better at not defaulting to the walked-into-a-door bullshit.

‘Dean was in a mood. Thought I’d grassed on him to the coppers.’

‘I saw Poodle’s car get towed.’

‘It was a nice car,’ Ryan said.

‘I didn’t grass on anyone.’

‘I know you didn’t–’ Jamal started, but Ryan went on:

‘It was a really nice fucking car–’

‘Shut the fuck up, Ryan,’ Jamal snapped, huffed, then looked back at Eggsy. ‘What’s he got you doing now?’ Jamal asked. And Eggsy almost laughed at the fact that Jamal already knew that Eggsy be blamed for shit he didn’t do. That was his life.

‘Luke’s gig.’

‘That Kensington shit?’

Eggsy shrugged, though was careful to not dislodge a dozing Daisy. He propped the phone on his knees and gently manoeuvred the bottle’s nip from her lips. ‘He got a job as a handyman and now fancies himself well-versed in the area.’

‘It’s risky business.’

‘I mean, what’s the most you get for burglary? Five, ten years, indoors?’

‘That’s a long time, Eggsy.’

‘Well, it ain’t like I got a choice, do I?’

 That was something you learned early on in the Estates. There was a hierarchy, and those at the bottom did as told, no questions. And it wasn’t just a matter of moving out of town; someone like Eggsy would stand out like a sore big toe. It was the way he talked, the way he held himself; the smell of the Estates on his skin.

He’d tried to leave once, but ended right back at his roots, his mum taking back to the bottle, quicker than she’d been to scream at him that he was abandoning her the same way his dad had. Leaving the Marines wasn’t something Eggsy allowed himself to think too much about, less he get bitter and question why he loved his mum; and in anyway, he had to have come back for Daisy. He’d grown up in the shit, and he didn’t want her to do the same. Eggsy just yet hadn’t figured out how to stop digging himself further into the shit.

He talked to the lads for a few more minutes, making plans to hit the pub on Friday. Ryan had a new job and said he’d treat them; Jamal questioned whether Ryan would be able to keep the job till Friday and Eggsy laughed. And for those few minutes, with Daisy’s easy breaths against his cheek, Eggsy allowed himself to feel settled within the confines of his too tight skin.

Eggsy  

Luke was the biggest dickhead, but he was in charge, so Eggsy gritted his teeth. The plan for the mugging were thin at best (get in, get out, quick as you like), that it was surprising that the lot of them hadn’t yet got caught. Eggsy didn’t think it was worth the risk, but Luke had already sold Dean on the money that could be made from the posh things rich people had in their homes. It helped that Luke’s dad had a deep hand in the black market and could get a swap of cash quick, before even the coppers knew what items they should be on the look for.

Eggsy didn’t feel good about. It still felt like the most stupid thing he could ever do, hardly worth the jail-time, he’d much rather do time for trashing Poodle’s car. But was he going to voice his complaints at Dean? No, the fuck not. So, Eggsy took the gloves, and the baclava and the bag. And whilst he wasn’t religious, he made the sign of the cross and the peace sign. Double the wish me luck; it had to mean something.

The first house lodged a stone inside his throat, that got thicker as the night drew on. The sky was mostly cloudless, leaving them with a good view to skim hedges and climb over fences. Eggsy thought that the old saying worked: if you could see them, then they most definitely could fucking see you. But no alarms sounded, and Luke’s grin tripled. He apparently wasn’t as idiotic as he often acted; he’d been smart enough to find a way to jam the alarm systems before heading into the houses.

Still, by the time they were heading to the second house in Kensington (two houses at most, per night. To confuse the coppers, but also to not stretch themselves thin – Luke fancied himself smart when he said that), Eggsy had yet to be convinced of the point. They got bags of shit that he didn’t see the worth of, but which Luke swore was good stuff.

‘Some of these people got shit made from World War Two. An easy five grand on the Black Market. Good even if it ain’t the worth at a proper auction.’ Luke then launched into a spiel about antiques and bidding wars. Eggsy zoned most of it out, to be honest. He needed a bed, ASAP, and Luke’s niche obsession wasn’t helping to make him like the guy any better.

Eggsy

An old guy owned the next house, though he wasn’t living in as far as the nosey neighbours that Luke did maintain for thought. The guy had been shanked a couple years back and left for dead; he hadn’t died but he’d become a recluse. Or more so than the usual artist types. Eggsy didn’t need the history lesson, the less he knew about these people and their better off lives, the less guilt he’d feel for skiving them of a few things.

But even that measure of guilt that Eggsy felt, didn’t last long. The guy lived alone; why’d he need a six-bedroom house, when two streets over, there was underpass with homeless people shivering in the cold? The injustice of it made Eggsy feel tougher; a fucked-up version of Robin Hood looking out for the plebs, he was.

Luke got him in through a back window. It was Eggsy’s turn to do the legwork, just like it’d been another sod at Dean’s mercy to do the last. Hands shaking, though he’d never admit to his body’s failure on him, Eggsy climbed through the window and paused on the other side. He waited; for the shrill of an alarm to go off. But all remained quiet. Luke’s guy was pulling on some hacker-grade shit; it was any wonder he was wasting his talents with Dean’s lot.

Eggsy didn’t have a mind to loiter. Luke had gotten the floor plans, and having had a cursory glance at it, Eggsy knew well-enough where he should be going. These houses didn’t much change; the owners preferred the Victorian layouts.

He was looking for a room of paintings but before he could get there, Eggsy had to walk pass the dead butterflies mounted to the wall. Even in the dark, the grotesque made his face pull down. These artsy types; he’d never understand. No less because the best he could do was a hanging stickman.

When he found the room and pried the door open (not a squeak; hinges well-oiled), Eggsy paused once more. He’d have thought if these paintings were worth their dime, there’d be more security. But after another minute (Eggsy had ten to get this shit tone), nothing went off and he got to shoving things into his bag.

There were loads of them; stacked against walls, or perched on easels, or in crates. The room was heavy paint fumes, the old-must of dry brushes, and layered dust, which Eggsy figured would smell worst if it weren’t for his mask. It was too dark for him to properly make out what he was taking, but he didn’t think it much mattered. Luke was the wannabe Auctioneer; Eggsy was just the leg-man.

Soon then, Eggsy figured he had enough for Luke to not give him shit. Bag fit to bursting, he turned on his heel, but jus as soon stumbled, and nearly fell.

There was someone stood in the doorway. In a dressing, so it wasn’t Luke or the others who’d come in after him. A guy, clearly, he had the built for it, though he was a bit too much on the thin side. His feet were bare. He also had a glass in hand, which he raised to his mouth. A slow sip, followed by a hum, then, ‘I’m afraid that if you wished to steal something of value, you’d have had better luck at the Gallery. These are all rejects.’

But there are loads of them, Eggsy thought, which was the least of his fucking concern really. The house was still quiet, the loudest thing being the pound of his heartbeat and the whoosh of his breaths past his teeth. Eggsy got a glimpse of his future, (I mean, what’s the most you get for burglary? Five, ten years indoors?), and he immediately knew that he’d do anything to prevent that. His hands drew into fists at his side, and Eggsy was just bracing himself to beat up an old man–

‘Do you have a gun on you?’

Eggsy didn’t think he heard the question right. He didn’t think the guy should sound this calm having found an intruder in his house. ‘N– No,’ Eggsy said, meeting weird for weird.

‘Shame.’

‘What?’

‘I was just enjoying a bottle of whiskey. Sent from a client in Portugal. Join me in the drawing room if you’d like some.’

‘What?’

But the man had already turned away, heading for the drawing room, as he’d said. Eggsy listened to his footfalls, which remained all even and undisturbed until they were muffled against what he presumed was carpet. A few seconds more (no alarms blared), then Eggsy was shaking his head.

Maybe, Dean had hit him harder than he’d thought. Maybe, Eggsy was actually tucked away in his bed, dreaming of the weirdest shit of his life. Either way, Eggsy had self-preservation honed like a common sense, so he didn’t loiter any longer. His trainer’s squeaked on floorboards as he legged his way back to the window he’d come in from. He’d just made it when the scritch of music filled the corridor.

Nothing Eggsy had heard before. Proper oldies, like. Nineteen-fifties? He wondered if the guy had already called the cops.

‘Mugsy, you got the stuff?’ called Luke. His voice was irritating enough to snap Eggsy back to the present situation.

Right, the back. The window. Forget the strange man, Eggsy. You don’t want to be part of that weird shit. ‘Yeah, yeah, I got it. Budge up so I can toss the bag to you.’

‘Good on you, Mugsy. Rhys, catch the bag.’

Harry

James was in London for some business, not too far from Kensington, so it just made sense that he would stop by Harry. That was the excuse, anyway. James hardly needed an invite into Harry’s home, and for years hadn’t cared for one, but the last two years had changed him in the same way it had Merlin. He informed Harry of his visit a whole two days prior, then called the hour before to remind. Harry left the front door open for him.

‘Your front door was open,’ said James, his footsteps muffled on the carpet, though Harry did hear him settle on the adjacent settee. ‘Merlin was telling me about these break-ins in the neighbourhood. Maybe, we should get you one of those modern doors? They immediately lock when you close them. Or maybe we can get you one of those that are controlled by your tablet. You won’t have to get up to open the door…’ James trailed off. Harry was surprised that it’d taken him this long to realise the oddity of the situation. ‘Are you… reading the newspaper?’

‘Yes,’ said Harry, and he made a show of turning the page and tilting his head. It was another few seconds before James sighed.

‘What are you doing, Harry?’

‘Merlin says that I should keep abreast of current affairs. It does not do one well to remain in the dark as to the state of the world. I agree. Hence, I’ve re-subscribed to my daily delivery of the newspaper. Here, on page five, a wonderful piece has been written about the local rivers and the constant deluge of shit that’s being drained into it–’

‘If you want to hear about current affairs, there are plenty of options available. A podcast. The television or radio–’

‘No, James. I’d rather read about it.’ In the silence, Harry turned the page once more; he even fluttered it out and leaned in closer. ‘And I’ve missed the crossword on page ten. Tell me, James. What is a four-letter word for something that encompasses feelings of frustration and futility.’

‘Stop it.’

‘No, that is not it. And that’s two words, James. You’ve never been very good at the crossword though, have you–’

‘Harry,’ James pressed. And Harry felt a hand settle atop his own, which caused a flinch, if only because he had not seen it. ‘Stop it.’

Harry sat still for a moment, regulating his breathing. He was in his house, he reminded himself. The carpet was as familiar underneath his bare feet, as was the timbre of James’ voice.

‘Why are you here?’ Harry asked. And thankfully, James did not point out the croak to his voice, when he said,

‘To see you, Harry. We’ve not seen each other in weeks.’

‘Seen?’

‘You know what I mean.’ James’s presence leaned away, taking the hand with him; Harry breathed easier for him.

‘It’s prudent that one is precise when it comes to such things.’

‘Talking, then. We have not spoken in weeks. I sent Merlin those sketches for review and received a single thumbs up. You know Merlin knows nothing where art is concerned.’

‘Of course not. His best are triangular boxes.’ Harry leaned forward, feeling out where he’d placed the glass and bottle. ‘Care for a drink?’

‘It’s only gone past ten, Harry.’

‘Morning or night? I can’t tell.’

James was quiet as Harry poured his drink; he felt the table afterwards and allowed himself a small smile when he realised that he hadn’t spilled anything. Good thing too; this liquor was expensive.

‘Our clients in Rome have been awaiting your critique of their art, Harry. I can only stall them for so long.’

Harry leaned back against the settee, and only after he’d had a burning sip of whiskey, and allowed himself to savour its taste, did he state, ‘I am blind,’ and was quite proud that the word, in relation to himself, did not prompt any feeling out of the ordinary. ‘Do they not know that?’

‘They are aware–’

‘Then, why on Earth are they consulting me?’

‘Because your opinion is valued? Art is more than the visual, you’ve said so yourself. They would like your feedback on the themes they’ve chosen; whether you think their direction is right for the project.’

Harry found that hard to believe; he didn’t believe it, at all. Despite everything else, he still had his name, and that was what others wanted. The attached signature of Harry Hart, never mind his recently depleted capacity to give it. It was ridiculous to ask a blind man to grade art, and Harry refused to partake in the farce. So, ‘No,’ he said.

‘Harry–’

‘Do you think that if enough people ask me, that I might be likened to change my mind? I already sent Merlin off with my answer, and it has not changed since then.’

‘This is an opportunity for you to get back into work. In an altered capacity, yes. But that does negate the last thirty years of the life you’ve spent on this–’

‘Yes, it does!’ Harry snapped, not meaning to, but he could help the shake to his voice. Even as he managed to reign himself in, just as quickly as he lost his temper. Harry sighed and pressed the glass to his forehead. ‘Do not think me ungrateful… But it is no consolation to be treated the same, when I am not the same. I am changed, and I can never be unchanged.’

‘You are still Harry,’ said James, his words as soft as Harry’s had been. They prompt a scoff from Harry. ‘No– No, listen. You are Harold Louis Spencer Hart–’

‘God. What a mouthful–’

‘The greatest painter to have ever lived–’

‘No need for the dramatics, James. I am blind, not stupid.’

‘Even if you never critiqued another piece of art, or never lifted a paint brush yourself–’ he cut himself off there, and Harry heard the anguish before he continued. ‘You are still a great talent, a great mind. There are many things that you could still do. Lecturing, for one. You’ve always been eager to know the theory, and history, as much as you did the practical.’

Harry did not have a response for that. In his mind’s eye, he had memories of his younger self, as gangly as he’d now become, but with less skin stretching over bone. Face flushed with ideas and ambition; hands coloured by a rainbow. Harry had worn glasses since he was six years old, but never had he truly though that his eyes would become a barrier to committing to the thing he loved the most.

Foolish him.

‘I can’t just,’ James sighed, and the settee creaked under his weight. ‘It goes against my conscience to see you sit and waste the rest of your life away, Harry. You are more than the art.’

Harry smiled then, even as he shook his head, thinking James wrong; Harry told him so. ‘There are some people who will say that art is not equal to the consequence of life or death. But I say it is more than that. And I am nothing, nothing, without it.’

Harry

Harry had just finished his second glass full. He felt warmed by the alcohol, quite like he could be smothered underneath a fluffy blanket. Harry could wile away the hours with his brain matter growing at a distance. But that morning, Guilia had informed him that the housekeeper would be coming by later that afternoon, and also his therapist. Harry should eat before the latter; it was never a good idea to face Imani on an empty stomach. Perhaps, he should order Mexican today?

It was as Harry was contemplating menu options, he became aware of hurried footsteps. For a moment, he tensed, before he remembered that he already knew who was in the house with him. And James would not have left without first saying goodbye (and trying to flatter him, once more, into returning to his old occupation).

‘Some of your sketches are missing,’ James said, sounding quite out of breath. ‘Quite a few, actually. An entire wall’s worth of paintings are gone, Harry.’

‘Oh?’ Harry questioned, before he remembered. ‘Oh, yes. I threw them away.’

A pause, then, ‘What?’

‘I would never be able to finish them. And they were taking up quite a lot of space; not to mention the paint fumes were slipping through the door. I thought it best just to be rid of them.’

‘Some of those paintings were nearly half done, Harry.’

‘Really? Would they be worth much?’

‘Does Adlehair know about this?’ James questioned; his voice gone pitchy in apparent distress; he then answered his own question. ‘Of course he doesn’t. He would never have allowed you to do this.’

‘They are my paintings. Unfinished or almost, I can do as I wish with them,’ Harry said, but he doubted that James was listening, or even heard his words.

Soon, there was the dial tone of a call being made, and Merlin picked up on the second ring– Because of course he would. Merlind had known that James was coming over to Harry’s and he’d have cleared his schedule to be of assistance, should it be necessary. As if Harry was quadriplegic and not just blind.

‘Merlin. Harry’s gone and thrown away a quarter of his paintings!’

‘What?’

Quesadilla’s, Harry thought, and reached for his phone so he might call the restaurant. He was feeling for some quesadillas. And maybe a Burito.

Eggsy  

Life went on, didn’t it? Eggsy got back into Dean’s good graces, though only because the last of Luke’s oh-so-brilliant-idea turned out to be as crap as Eggsy thought it was. The paintings they’d stolen weren’t worth anything without the official signatures of the artist, and whilst Luke had tried to blame that on Eggsy, Dean hadn’t cared for in. In a rare display of intelligence, he’d called the whole thing off and told them to get their arses back on the streets selling his drugs. Business as usual.

Eggsy wasn’t going to lie, though, he was curious. Just enough to look up that wasn’t supposed to have been home, and clearly had been, and who’d apparently survived a bullet to the fucking face. It’d been too dark to get a proper look at his face, but Eggsy imagined that the state of him wasn’t that good. Nobody on any socials had managed to get a good mug of him in the last two years ago.

That was where Eggsy let it all rest though. He wasn’t about to go trolling through a stranger’s life, picking apart his art as if he were some fucking critique. Harry Louis Spencer Hart (a fucking mouthful, innit?) had survived the impossible and now lived so quietly in his home that his neighbours didn’t think he was around.

Eggsy sometimes found himself wondering about the question (Do you have a gun?) and obviously drunken sway of the man’s back when he left the room, as if he couldn’t care less whether Eggsy made a lunge for him (I was just enjoying a bottle of whiskey. Sent from a client in Portugal. Join me in the drawing room if you’d like some) but Eggsy had his own business to get on with. Spending hours thinking about a lone man and his six-bedroom house would hardly make a good thing out of his life, would it?

Ryan managed to keep the job and treated them to drinks on Friday night. Eggsy almost hadn’t been able to make it though. Not with his mum pissed and Daisy needing someone to look after her, but his neighbour could be a real one when sober. She’d promised to keep off the stuff whilst she was looking after Dasy; and Eggsy trusted her word more than he did his mum’s. And wasn’t that a bitch?

‘Lads. I am gassed.’

‘Lean elsewhere,’ Jamal said, batting Ryan’s head away from him. ‘Bruv, how much did you smoke before you came in here.’

‘You was late!’

‘So, you smoked a pack?’

‘I shared some with a bird.’ Ryan grinned, leaning forward again. ‘She gave me her number.’

‘Does she know you have chlamydia?’

‘Fuck off, yeah?’

Eggsy needed this. The drink, as much as the banter. He needed the remainder that, despite all his other failings, he was a twenty-five-year-old lad, and not a geezer with a child and the responsibilities that came with it. Not that he didn’t love his little sister to death, and that he wouldn’t give her the world if he could, but Eggsy had to face the facts. It was down to him to keep Daisy safe. His mum wasn’t fit to parent, and Dean didn’t give a shit anything where his drugs and money weren’t concerned (and Michelle, but then Eggsy would have to believe that love was beaten pains, and he wouldn’t ever).

‘Bruv. Where you at?’ Jamal. He was the mother-hen of their trio but expect a smack upside the head if you told him that to his face.

‘Just got a lot to think about,’ Eggsy said.

‘Well, don’t,’ said Ryan, with his wise words. ‘We’re here to get sloshed, yeah? No crying over soggy fish.’

‘But if Eggsy wanted to talk about some things,’ Jamal added, making to sound indifferent but not quite managing it. ‘Then, you know. We’d be down for that as well.’

‘Yeah…’ Ryan trailed off, glancing between Jamal and Eggsy. Before he took a long gulp of his beer. The guy was as allergic to fish as he was to pillow talk. Peeling gum out from underneath a table would be less troublesome than getting Ryan to talk about his feelings. But he tried, anyway.

‘Appreciate it, lads,’ Eggsy laughed, drawing them out of their awkward misery. ‘But nothing to gossip over, sweat it. Shit’s been at its usual this week.’

‘Back with the runs?’ Jamal asked, not stating the explicit. And not inflecting his tone either way; he’d gotten good at that. Not giving his opinion, especially where he knew that Eggsy didn’t have better choices waiting for him.

‘Yeah. Luke’s idea got benched.’

‘About time.’ Ryan leaned over the table and mumbled, ‘Wanker.’

‘What went wrong?’ Jamal asked, and Eggsy snorted at the assumption that something did. He wasn’t right. And Eggsy explained what happened.

 Jamal let out a slow whistle. Ryan didn’t say anything, but he shoved a handful of salt and vinegar chips into his mouth.

‘Well, at least the owner weren’t in.’

Eggsy took a gulp of his beer before saying, ‘He was.’

Jamal eyebrows raised; it was Ryan who spoke. ‘And he didn’t call the coppers?’

Eggsy shrugged. ‘Nah. The guy offered me a drink, mate. Fuck if I know what these rich people are thinking.’

‘You should have stolen a pretty vase. I hear those are often expensive.’

There hadn’t been any vases about the place, as far as Eggsy remembered. Granted, he hadn’t done a full tour (the house was four stories) but from he had seen, the place had been pretty sparse. No pictures on the wall. If anything, most of the decorative stuff, the art, had been in that one room. Locked away to fester amid the paint fumes. Eggsy might have been doing the man a service if he hadn’t raised the alarm for intruders and theft (and he hadn’t, Eggsy had checked).

‘My cousin’s coming down this weekend,’ said Jamal. An obvious subject change, and Eggsy was reminded, once more, why Jamal was aces. He would take the incoming ribbing over the dissection of his life any day. ‘Thinking about shooting your shot again, Unwin? If you don’t talk too much, I think she might glance more than two ways at you this time.’

Ryan snorted and reached for another handful of chips. ‘Eggsy’s got two left feet when it comes to the birds. Don’t count him in yet.’

‘Bruv!’ Eggsy said, tone heavy with offence. ‘I got charm in spades. Jamal; your cousin just ain’t easy.’

‘She got taste.’

‘What’s the fuck that mean?’

Eggsy  

‘Okay, mate. What the fuck are you doing?’

Eggsy didn’t know what he was doing. But it’d been two weeks, and he’d collected a belt of bruises, more painful than being rejected by Jamal’s cousin the second time. In that time, when Eggsy wasn’t carrying backpacks with enough dope to see him locked up for a very long fucking time he thought about what he was doing with life. And what he wasn’t. He wasn’t making it better, not for himself, or Daisy. Not his mum. Everyday, Michelle sunk deeper behind the glaze of drugs; Eggsy could remember the last she’d been bright eyed. She was wasting away before him, just like he was doing of himself. And he had no fucking idea how to change it any, how to be better, how to do better. People talked about taking opportunities, but what the fuck was he supposed he do when there weren’t any?

So, he was here. Back in Kensington. On the doorstep of the man, he’d robbed a few weeks ago. Fuck if he knew why. Did he want to get identified and sent to the coppers? Eggsy didn’t want to leave Daisy behind, but he was just so fucking tired, all the fucking time. At least, when in jail, he wouldn’t have to run Dean’s drugs.

Eggsy knocked on the door.

He wasn’t dressed to fit in with the neighbourhood. There weren’t many pedestrians, but he saw a couple of drivers crane their necks to get a good look at him. The break-ins had stopped, but the coppers were still on the back pedal of figuring out who’d stolen the stuff. Eggsy was actually pissed off at their incompetence.

‘Yes?’ Eggsy blinked. The door wasn’t opened, and there wasn’t a ring button on it either.  But someone was talking to him. Could they see him?’

‘Uh.’ Eggsy shoved his hands into his hoodie’s pockets. ‘I’m Eggsy?’ he cringed, just as he said his name, and wasn’t surprised by the question in the man’s tone.

‘I’m afraid that I do not know an Eggsy.’ He sounded familiar. Eggsy had just about stopped himself from looking up videos of Harry Hart, but he remembered the voice of the man from weeks ago. Poised and stretching; in the way he’d always though the posh spoke. Though, he’d admit, less aggravating. ‘Do you have a parcel for me? If so, leave it on the doorstep. I don’t much care for the signature. If needed, you have my permission to forge something–’

‘I ain’t a Hermes delivery guy.’ Eggsy said, the first thought to be caught by his disbelief.

‘Good. They’re shit.’

Eggsy laughed; it was a bark of a thing, fat with the unexpectedness of it. The ensuing silence made him flush over it. ‘No, sorry, I’m not–’ Eggsy took a breath, then, with a fuck it he might regret, said, ‘I stole from you the other day? I mean, it was a couple of weeks ago now. You caught me in the act and like, offered me a drink.’

There was no crackle of a speaker, no clop of footsteps, no exhaled breath. Eggsy met well just be looking like a complete wanker staring at a red door. Still, he’d come all this way. He had to, at least, ask,

‘That offer still stand?’

‘I’m afraid that the bottle from Portugal has already finished,’ said the guy, another bit for a pause. He sounded contemplative though, and not as if this entire situation was weird as fuck. ‘How do you like the Paris vineyards? La Maelle produces some of the best wine in the country.’

‘I don’t know much about wine. The sweet ones are alright, I guess.’ Eggsy could remember knicking some of his mum’s when he was younger, and his dad scolding him the one-time Eggsy had downed too much. He wasn’t much of a wine person though; vodka and beer were his go. But if a posh, rich bloke, was offering him wine, who was he to refuse? ‘Yeah, wine’s good.’

‘Come on in, Eggsy.’ A click came from the door, and it slowly started to open. ‘I’m in the drawing room.’

Eggsy  

Seeing the place in the daylight was a hell of a lot better than seeing it at night. Though, that wasn’t to say there was much to actually see. Aside from the dead butterflies (which, still rank, that), the house was sparse. Cleaner than what he’d seen of glossy show home pictures, though accented with the décor of someone who liked their antiques. Brown, hardwoods and leathers, an honest to God, fucking fireplace. Eggsy wondered about his shoes, before kicking them off in the doorway and stepping onto the carpet. A dark green, and softer than it looked.

Eggsy found his host laid back in a grand-like armchair, a glass filled with drink, already in hand.

Harry Hart, alright, Eggsy concluded. The man looked a bit older than his last public photos made him out to be, but he did get shot in the face, so… Eggsy hoped that whoever his plastic surgeon had been got paid well above their paygrade. There was a scar tissue marrying both sides of Hart’s temples, raised pink in some areas but Hart still had a face.

Eggsy stared at him for a long while, eyes drawing over the man’s features; the robe he was wearing, despite it being three in the afternoon. It hung loose around him, belying his thinness underneath. And it wasn’t just that, but the gaunt of the man’s face, only just hidden underneath the bush of beard at his cheeks, peppered with just enough black to not be completely grey. Eggsy was reminded of rubber bands, pulled taught, with the ever-present threat of snapping and being flung to far corners. It took Eggsy the longest to realise that there was something odd with Hart’s eyes.

‘Help yourself,’ Hart said, his lips hovering over the rim of his own glass. ‘There is ice in the fridge behind the bar you if you need.’

Eggsy hesitated, still eying the man and his still pupils. But he did eventually cross into the room. Eggsy poured himself a drink, but didn’t go for any ice. For the lack of knowing what else to do, or how to start, he took a sip of the wine.

And hummed. ‘This is good.’

‘An old blend. I’m told it goes rather well with steak. Not too sweet?’

‘Uh, no. No,’ Eggsy said, when he realised that he’d been asked a question. He took another sip and confirmed, ‘Yeah, not too sweet.’

‘I prefer whiskey or scotch. But my mother did go all the way to France to collect this birthday present. I thought I might at least taste it.’

‘Oh, uh–’ Eggsy hadn’t realised it was Harry’s birthday. How had he missed that amongst his stalking? ‘Happy Birthday?’

‘Thank you. It was a few weeks ago, now, anyway.’

Right. The man didn’t sound like he cared either way, but what mother sent a few weeks late birthday present? (Eggsy couldn’t talk though; his mum had barely been sober on his last). That reminded Eggsy though. He’d come here with a plan, that he’d been formulating on the train, then walk over. He though it solid now. He was going to apologise…

‘I’m, uh.’ Eggsy placed the glass atop the table (and didn’t miss Harry’s tilting in the direction of the sound. He brushed his palms, sweaty now, against the thigh of his jeans, and forced the words from between the sweet dryness of his mouth: ‘I’m sorry.’

Harry’s head tilted further. ‘What for?’

‘The paintings?’ At the man’s placid expression, Eggsy went on. ‘You know, I mentioned at the door? It was me – Well, me and a bunch of others that came in to steal your paintings. Well, I did the legwork. Luke was just a donkey.’ Eggsy paused, not having meant to say anyone else’s name, he really wasn’t a snitch, but Harry’s expression did not shift, and it eased some of his worry. And even if Harry pressed, Eggsy would insist on going down himself, alone, for this.  ‘I’m sorry, yeah? And like, if it were possible, I’d get them back to you. But like, things like that ain’t up to me, you know? I don’t even know where the paintings are anymore! Luke’s probably trashed them since they weren’t worth nothing to begin with.’

Only after speaking, did Eggsy realise that what he said was a proper insult. How could it not be? A full room of paintings? Only someone dedicated and capable of offence would fill a room like that.

But Harry smiled. A corner lip thing, that drew at the wrinkle in his cheek. He spoke, and he didn’t say the first thing Eggsy thought he would have. ‘Were you responsible for the other break-ins?’

Eggsy was stunned enough that he answered, right away, ‘No. Well, yeah. But only two. Your house and another’s.’

‘Angeline?’

‘I think so?’ Eggsy could vaguely recall the name and Luke’s chatting shit about her fake but glorious tits.

‘If so, good. She’s a tart.’ Eggsy choked on his spit. ‘If anyone deserves to get robbed, it’s her. Is your real name Eggsy?’

Eggsy cleared his throat, fist to pat at his chest. ‘Well, nah. It’s a nickname.’

‘I’m not going to phone the police if that is your concern–’

‘Why?’

Harry paused, before his tone turned curious. ‘I offered you a drink the night you came to my house. Do you really think I’ll call the police now?’

‘Yeah, about that.’ Eggsy wiped his palms along his jeans some more. Why the fuck were they so sweaty? ‘Maybe, you shouldn’t like, do that? Robbers are usually dangerous people.’

‘You said you didn’t have a gun.’

‘Well, yeah–’

‘Were you lying?’

‘No–’

‘Then, you were rather harmless, I think.’

‘There are other ways to harm someone that don’t much involve a gun,’ Eggsy said, and he knew what he was talking about. Personal experience and all that.

Harry’s face was tilted towards him, assessing. Eggsy thought he was staring at the bruise on his cheek, already fading, but irises wouldn’t quite focus.

‘I’m aware,’ said Harry, on a murmur. Then, ‘Why are you here?’

‘I wanted to apologise,’ said Eggsy. But that didn’t sound quite right, and Harry’s expression said so as well. ‘I thought you’d ring me in.’

‘You wanted to get caught,’ Harry’s tone was flat. ‘Well, unfortunately, I’m not the person to go to if you seek punishment for committed crimes. Perhaps, you should have gone to Angeline. She’d be missing clay pots more than I do my paintings.’

‘She didn’t offer me a drink. She wasn’t home.’

‘And even if she had been, she wouldn’t have. I’m polite; she’s a bitch.’

Eggsy snorted, but then he as quick caught himself. ‘What did you mean? About not missing the paintings?’ It wasn’t Eggsy’s business. That wasn’t what he’d come for; the chit chat and the drink. But he found himself reading the contours of Harry’s face, more focused than any other book he’d read. He was thinking about a lone man and a six-bedroom house, the lack of furniture, decoration; he’d offered a robber a fucking drink.

‘Are you employed, Eggsy?’ Harry asked. And Eggsy wasn’t actually surprised that his question hadn’t been answered. If anything, the non-answer told him more about the man sat before him.

‘I’m between jobs at the moment,’ he said, which was his go-to, instead of, No. I’m fucking unemployed, and unemployable because of record, my shit education and attitude.

‘Must be quite a well then. If you’re stealing from people in your spare time.’

‘I said that night weren’t up to me.’

‘Did someone shove you through my window?’

‘Well, no–’

‘Accepting personal blame, Eggsy. The first step to personal gain.’

‘You can’t say that to me. You don’t know shit about me, nor my situation.’ Eggsy hadn’t meant to say that either, but he didn’t apologise. Instead, he reached for the wine glass and took a long sip. Even after the swallow though, he didn’t feel steadier. He expected Harry to tell him to get the fuck out.

‘You are right. And I apologise. Drinking makes me–’ he waved his hand then, pale wrists curling in the air. ‘A supposed know-it-all.’

‘It’s fine.’ Awkward now, with the glass dangling between his thighs. Eggsy didn’t much know where to go now. If he wasn’t being turned into the coppers, then there was no more reason for him to be here. God, Jamal and Ryan were going to laugh at him for this. Or laugh at the state of his fate. Who’d believe his luck? His conscience turning him back to the first man who hadn’t immediately dialled up the number to fuck up his life.

‘Do you know how to cook, Eggsy?’

Eggsy blinked, digesting the question. And when he couldn’t decide what it meant, he said, ‘Uh, yeah. I can come up with edible things.’

‘Well, that’s already better than what I am capable of.’ Harry took a long sip of his wine, and by the time he lifted his end, his lips were red. ‘You’re hired, then. If you want the job.’

It took Eggsy a few blinks to further digest those words. ‘What?’

‘Five days a week, if you can. I prefer lunches over dinner, so you won’t have to work a full day. How does one-hundred-pounds an hour sound?’

Eggsy’s mind was fighting for its fucking life. What the fuck was going on? ‘What?’

‘Oh, too low? I thought so. How about three hundred and fifty?’

‘Harry–’

‘You are unemployed and in need of something to occupy your time, so you do not turn to petty theft.’ Petty theft? Was that what Harry thought Household robbery amounted to? ‘I have decided, just now, that I am need of a cook. I’m not getting any younger, and my gut keeps reminding me. A home-cooked meal, five days a week, should set it to straights.’

‘I ain’t qualified for this!’

‘Nonsense. You just said you can make edible things.’

‘Yeah! But that don’t make me qualified to be your personal chef? What the fuck, Harry?’

‘Eggsy,’ Harry said, sounding the most serious he’d been, ever. ‘I’m offering you an opportunity that I’m sure you’re well aware doesn’t come easy. I have the money, and freedom to spend it how I please. If I choose to spend it by hiring someone to cook edible things for me– Any by that someone, I mean you– Don’t question me.’

Still, ‘This is a fucking joke, innit?’

‘No. It is not, as you say, a fucking joke.’

Eggsy had his suspicions though. Things that looked too good to be true were often just that; too good to be true. If anyone else had told him this happened to them, he’d called them and donkey and ask how many times a day they’d had to spread their legs. But Harry remained as cool as you like, sipping his wine and looking at… something. And the more that Eggsy looked at him, the more he knew that he could well handle himself if Harry tried anything. Not that he thought the other would; in a short space of time, Eggsy could already tell that Harry wasn’t like that. If he was giving Eggsy this chance, it wasn’t because he wanted anything more in return than what he’d already said. That sounded fake in of itself (there was still the looming fact that Eggsy had robbed the man) but Eggsy did want the money…

And if he had money, then he wouldn’t have to rely on Dean. He could stop running drugs. If he managed to keep the job (the joke of a job, even if Harry said it wasn’t), then maybe he could save up enough to eventually get out of Dean’s flat. Take Daisy with him (and his mum, if she let him).

 ‘Think on it, if you like,’ said Harry, as if he could hear the turns of Eggsy’s mind. ‘Take as long as you want; it is not as if you are competing with other applicants.’

Eggsy  

 Between them, they finished the wine bottle. Harry told Eggsy about his favourite distilleries and how to make a proper old-fashioned. ‘Always with whiskey, never bourbon.’

Eggsy learned far more than he ever needed to know about alcohol, since he’d never have the funds to get the good stuff that Harry liked. Or maybe, he might. Being paid three-fifty quid and all per hour. Eggsy, for a second, felt like he should tell Harry that was too high a wage, far more than Eggsy’s skill were worth, but he was reminded of the man’s assuredness.

Don’t question me.

Eggsy didn’t think too hard on why those three words alone made his thighs want to clench, rather than make him rear up with offence.

He eventually took his leave, though not because Harry kicked him out. And the man looked somewhat regretful when Eggsy said that he was leaving, before his expression smoothed out once more. A lone man and a six-bedroom house, Eggsy thought. He’d been right to think it’d be lonely.

‘Let me know your decision, Eggsy,’ were Harry’s parting words. Eggsy wondered, though, whether Harry already knew that Eggsy had made a decision. He’d already correctly read Eggsy once.

Eggsy let himself out of the house, waving a hand in parting to Harry. The man did not acknowledge the hand, but Eggsy didn’t think anything of it; Harry’s head had been turned to the fireplace anyway. It was only as the door shut behind Eggsy that he realised what had been odd about Harry’s eyes.

They were unseeing.

Harry was blind.

Chapter Text

Harry

Harry had a piano, but he never played it. It was a belated thirtieth birthday present from his mother; an apology for having forgotten the day, once again, wrapped over his mother’s inability to not be petty. She never would forgive him for having taken after his father, and not her. It wasn’t enough that you had to look like him, she’d said, but now you must paint like him.

Love taken, not to be confused with love lost, could look so bitter on a person.  Harry had focused on the browns and blacks of the moment; an expresso shot slowly dripped over yellow-based-canvas. The reds were self-explanatory, as was the aloofness associated with the wisp of cigarette smoke. He’d painted a woman at her pale nude, gazing out of an Italian-esque-window upon a green river littered with small boats and the side of foot traffic. Storm clouds hung at the corners.

Love taken had been one of Harry’s more acclaimed works and he’d been quite proud of it until he fell in love with the concept of something else. Still, not one to let things go, instead of selling the portrait, he’d had it mailed to his mother; he could also be petty.

Sometimes, since his mother had never mentioned it, though glared more fiercely at him the next time they met, Harry wondered whether she’d has the portrait cremated or hung upon a wall in a disused room. He found that he didn’t really care, either way, but the latter would feel more fitting than the prior.

‘I think that’s enough for today,’ Imani said, drawing Harry back to the present. The present was the soft sink of the settee around his limbs, the thread of the carpet fibres between his bare toes and the breaths of someone that was not just him. He could not say for how long he’d been drifting, but if Imani was calling their session to a close, then it must have been a while. ‘I want you to keep working on what we talked about, Harry. I’ll like to see some progress by next week.’

She was paid to care, Harry reminded himself. Aside from Merlin and James, though Harry had yet to understand why they put up with him, she was the only other person in his life to be insistent in the face of his resistance. Everyone else had walked away. Because Harry would no longer smile so easily or accept their well-wishes and move on. He could not move on. He felt stuck in a limbo, black sand drifting by. Existing but not living. Merlin would say that it was Harry’s own fault, this stalemate, but Merlin hadn’t been the one to lose the most fundamental part of him.

Harry wondered how long it would take for Eggsy to realise that the money wasn’t enough to put up with his sorry state.

Harry

‘What are you making?’

‘Fucking hell, Harry!’

The boy did not seem the type to startle easily; Harry had the sense that he kept himself on the alert, constantly; it must have been exhausting. But he had yet to pick apart Harry’s type of quiet. For all of Harry’s slow approach, the other did not seem to notice his presence until he was nearby, Harry knowing the distance by the burgeoning strength in the smell of Eggsy’s cologne. Masculine, but with a hit of lavender underneath. And baby powder.

‘You’ve used quite a lot of basil,’ said Harry, jamming his hands into the pockets of his robe. He cocked his head to the side, then added, ‘And garlic.’

‘Spagball, alright?’

‘I am fond of the Italians. And their food.’

‘Should be done in a bit. Just letting the sauce simmer some.’

‘No need to rush. I’m not too hungry.’

Harry then continued on his way, as if that had been his intention all along. To just pass through. But it was a white lie, at best.

He had not been entirely surprised that Eggsy had taken his, out-of-left-field offer, though he did find himself amused by the dedication with the boy took to his new job. Perhaps, though, that was just his prejudice, try as he might to will it away, creeping, though.

Eggsy did not explain as much, and Harry did not doubt the boy would be resistant to such line of questioning, but Harry had deduced quite a bit about his background. A background of poverty; because no one well-adjusted committed burglary. Harry might think Eggsy desperate, except the boy had already admitted to the idea not being his own. Then, there the manner of Eggsy’s speech; a cockney twang associated with the some of the lower classes. And with Harry’s sharpened sense of smell, he could further deduce the hardship that came with that; sweat, cigarette smoke, the must of unwashed clothes and the chemical element of synthetic drugs.

It should worry him, and it would have, in the before. Two years ago, Harry would never have allowed someone of the likes of Eggsy into his house, no matter what that said about his ability to judge and discriminate. Harry realised now though, that if he’d made Eggsy back then, he’d have missed out on an opportunity. Not least the opportunity to be treated with good food; the boy really had downplayed his talents.

Not long after Harry had taken his seat at the head of the table, was Eggsy bustling into the dining room. ‘All done. Just putting it here.’

‘What time is it?’ Harry asked, listening to clink and clatter of pots, plates and cutlery being settled. Harry could check himself, but it was a conversation point, and he could tell that Eggsy struggled with the starters when not prompted by Harry.

‘Just gone past half-one. Sorry about the wait. I would have finished earlier but well, I started late.’

‘It is quite fine, Eggsy. As I said, I’m not too hungry.’

‘You’re not hungry much, are you?’

But when he had a conversation topic, he was not one to hold back. Quite like a bull on a charge. Harry thought of red capes flapping in the wind. But for all the boy’s lack of filter, he could apologise, even if could hear that he didn’t entirely mean it. After all, why should he apologise for concern?

‘This smells wonderful, Eggsy,’ Harry said, feeling out the space on the table until his fingers came into contact with the cool surface of the fork. ‘No knife?’

‘It’s spagball, Harry,’ Eggsy said, slow in a way that made it known that he was aware that Harry hadn’t answered his question. ‘Do the Italians use knife and fork for spagball?’

‘I suppose not.’ Harry’s lips quirked, and he dived his fork where he supposed the meal to be; a hard surface melted into firm but giving meat, its aroma wafting up to Harry’s nose. He sliced through it, then curled his hand to gather some of the spaghetti along. He did not yet bring the food to his mouth, though. Eggsy was watching.

Sometimes, it was paranoia, Harry had acknowledged. He could not tell for certain, so it was only expected that he would constantly think that eyes were watching him, even when he was fairly certain that he was the only one in the house. But Harry did not think this was paranoia; the weight of Eggsy’s gaze, like a palm coming close to hover at the face, not touching, but disturbing the wind enough that Harry knew it to be close. If he turned his head just so, he’d be able to smell the moisture of another’s skin.

Harry knew that Eggsy had to have figured out his disability by now. Harry did not have much practice in pretending to be seeing (the venture with Merlin had only enunciated his lack of sight to all the curious sort, Harry having needed Merlin’s guiding arm to even step one foot in front of the other), but Harry did think he carried himself rather well in his own house. At least where the ground floor was concerned, Harry could navigate the corridors well enough. But he still had to feel out for the things in front of him, and he knew that his gaze did not settle upon Eggsy when he spoke, no matter if Harry tried.

So, the boy must know. He did not act like he did though. James and Merlin for all their effort and care were inclined to treat Harry as if he’d forgotten the use of cutlery, at the same time he lost his eyesight and a good chunk of his memories. Even if Eggsy stared, he did not offer a guiding hand to Harry’s water or napkin. Maybe, he wanted to. Maybe, they were just not yet familiar enough. Harry preferred the distance. Or it was what he told himself, even as he asked,

‘Join me?’

After a beat, Eggsy asked, ‘Are you sure?’ though he was the one that sounded unsure.

‘Join me,’ Harry repeated, more firmly.  ‘I do not like to eat alone.’

It hadn’t been a lie two years ago. But since then, Harry had grown used to the solitude. He had been stubborn against the implement of a live-in carer. But now, he listened to the detritus of Eggsy gathering a plate for himself, and it was a white lie to say that his shoulders did not relax when he heard the chair to his right shift back, then inwards again, Eggsy sitting down.

              For awhile still, only the sounds of their eating filled the dining room; it was large enough to make the scrape of fork against plate louder than it should have been. This dining room had seen plenty of occupants over its lifetime, even years before Harry had bought the place. He’d never have thought to call its grandness claustrophobic though; Harry wondered what Eggsy made of the high ceiling and its beams.

              ‘This tastes wonderful, Eggsy,’ said Harry, and he meant it. Though his appetite was a fickle thing, it did help that the food he put into his mouth was bursting with flavour. So far, the boy had treated him to a cuisine on the exploration of the Mediterranean and Harry was quite willing to admit that some of the dishes had tasted far better than those created by those who called themselves professional chefs. ‘I do not think you were being entirely truthful when you said your skills were rather subpar.’

‘Nah, guv. I ain’t all that,’ said Eggsy, but he cleared his throat in a way that suggested that the compliment did not go unfelt by him. ‘The tele’s got these cooking shows, yeah? Used to watch them a lot and learned a thing or two. If I don’t know how to make something, there’s always YouTube.’

Harry smiled. ‘How very studious of you.’  

‘You laughing at me?’

‘Of course, not. I am complimenting your tenacity. The challenge of cooking is not one that can easily be overcome, and many have been bested by the requirements of the skill.’

‘You said you ain’t that good of a cook.’ Harry listened for the clink of the glass being settled back atop the table before he said,

‘In my household, the skill was not a requirement.’

‘Yeah? Grew up with a load of staff about the place?’

‘What gave me away?’

‘The four-storey house in one of the poshest parts of London, I think.’

 Again, Harry smiled. He moved his hand about the table and when his hand came into contact with the glass, he adjusted the turn of his head and picked it up; the orange juice was sour sweet on his taste buds.

 'Why don’t you have the staff now?’ Eggsy asked, in a neutral enough way that indicated he’d been thinking over the question some time. ‘It’s just that housekeeper I met the other day, as far as I can tell.’

‘I prefer to be self-efficient,’ Harry said.

‘Well, you don’t need help to call up a takeaway place.’

 ‘Indeed.’           

‘No wonder your gut’s fucked.’

Harry laughed; it was a bark of a thing, fat with the unexpectedness of it, though Harry was already getting used to it; he wasn’t even bothered by the swearing that Eggsy had initially tried to stray clear from. Out of some misguided some of propriety that Harry didn’t really care for.

The conversation could have easily swerved to choppy waters, towards the help that people so often thought Harry needed because he could not see. But even with his lacking filter, Eggsy was also seemingly a master of navigating waves. It was quite the subtle talent; not one to be understated. Harry had not thought it to be a skill necessarily learnt in the parts where Eggsy lived.

Harry was curious and growing ever more so. For all his deductions, he wanted the actual truth. Where id Eggsy live? Where had he grown up? Why did he often smell of baby powder? Did he just like the smell? Why did his breath catch like that, like just now, as he stood, as if he needed to move quite gingerly, to prevent a blossoming ache in his chest?

‘Thank you for the meal, Eggsy,’ was what Harry said. He had his secrets, so he would not begrudge Eggsy his own. And besides that, their contracted relationship was not of the type that necessitated personal touches. Eggsy was diligent in keeping to the stipulated terms of their agreement; it would therefore be selfish, not to mention mistrustful of Harry to wish for more, especially since it’d been quite a while since he’d cared for more and did not quite know what more would entail anyway.

Eggsy  

Eggsy had never shopped at Waitrose before and for good reason. There was no reason for a packet of rice to cost that much; wasn’t sustainable-eco-growth (whatever the fuck that meant) supposed to make things cheaper? Eggsy was tempted to just call it quits and get what he was used to, but this was Harry’s money he was using. And Harry deserved the best, didn’t he? Or well, he was used to the best, anyway.

Eggsy wasn’t used to cooking like this. He hadn’t the time back at the flat, not with Dean and his mates hanging around most of the time. Eggsy could get a quick meal going between drug runs; something with just enough salt to not make his gag reflex retaliate.

But Eggsy took his time now, looking up recipes, and picking out the freshest herbs, the real thing and not the granulated stuff. Who would have ever thought to look at him now? But he wanted to mix things up, give Harry a variety; something not processed and harsh on his gut. Harry could do with some fattening up, as well.

 The man probably didn’t expect Eggsy to go all out on this, and the first time, he hadn’t been quick enough to hide his surprise. Pleased surprise. Eggsy hadn’t expected it of himself, either. Nothing wrong with a quick Tesco shop but bully Eggsy for lying that he didn’t like the little compliments Harry gave after he’d managed to do a good job with lunch. Two weeks of some appreciation and Eggsy was going soft; he was even looking forward to Harry inviting him to sit for lunch, which he did every time, after the first time.

Eggsy hadn’t gone too soft though. There was still Dean and–

‘You holding out on me, Eggsy?’ Dean rattled a packet of spaghetti near Eggsy’s head; the cheap stuff. Eggsy would splash the cash for Harry, but he was used to what he was used to and didn’t see the point in splurging. Dean took offence to the grocery list though. ‘You ain’t running my drugs no more but you got cash to buy this shit?’

‘I got a job, didn’t I? And mum and Dais got to eat, don’t they?’

‘You trying to say something, Eggsy?’

You ain’t shit, Eggsy thought. A dickhead who thinks he’s something because he beats on a woman and don’t look after his kid. Eggsy didn’t say any of that, and wouldn’t ever, not so long as he lived under Dean’s roof, but he couldn’t hide it from his expression. Heart on sleeve, his mum used to tell him, with a smile, as if it was a good thing. Dean took issue to it though, offence, and slapped Eggsy upside the head for it.

  ‘If you got something to say, Eggsy, say it, yeah?’

‘I don’t got nothing to say.’

‘You sure about that?’ Dean stepped closer, rank breath in Eggsy’s face. Eggsy tried to crane his head away, but Dean was having none of that. Another smack to the head. ‘Nothing about you thinking you better than me? Cause you got some job now and you think you don’t need me?’

Eggsy clenched his jaw, held his breath. His mum wasn’t around, off to wherever she went when she wasn’t with Dean and didn’t want to be around Eggsy. Even if she was around, Eggsy didn’t think she’d try to stop Dean anyway. Eggsy was just grateful that Jamal’s sister was looking after Daisy during the week whilst Eggsy was at Harry’s; Eggsy didn’t want to think that Dean would go after Daisy if didn’t quite get what he was after with Eggsy, but it was better to be safe than sorry. And guilty.

Dean stepped in closer, chest to Eggsy; his eyes were glazed pools of hate. ‘Well, get this, Eggsy. I made you.’

 Eggsy almost scoffed at that, but he thought better of his already bruised ribs.

  ‘Your ma came to me when she had nothing. I took her in. I took you in. You got a lot to be grateful for ‘cause of me, Eggsy. The roof over your head; what you eat; your sister’s life.’

Eggsy’s hands fisted at his sides; he could feel the tremble of his limbs, the itch to break free of its restraints. But Dean took it for something else, his grin growing.

‘I don’t think you go about showing enough appreciation for all I’ve done, Eggsy.’

‘What do you want?’ Eggsy spat out, even if dumb. ‘For me to suck to suck your dick? That it–’

Eggsy barely got the taunt out before Dean’s meaty palm was fisted at his throat; Eggsy’s breath caught, and his hands immediately scrabbled to pry the fingers away, but Dean wasn’t all that minded to let Eggsy go. Eggsy started to feel himself to light without oxygen, even as Dean’s face moulted red with fury.

‘Don’t go getting any funny ideas in that head of yours, Eggsy. I’ll always be the one you need to keep you straight. I’ll beat that shit into you if I need you. Do you get me, Eggsy?’

Eggsy couldn’t breathe; the corners of his eyes were darkening.

‘Do you get me, Eggsy?’

‘Yes! Yes, I got you. Now, get the fuck off me!’

Eggsy  

 Deep breath in, even though it fucking hurt. Eggsy then raised his hand to the knocker and waited for the tell-tale crackle of the speaker and Harry’s voice. But he was left waiting for some time. And then more time, even after he’d used the knocker again.

 Eggsy didn’t let himself think too much about it. Harry could be slow getting to the door; even if he mostly used his tablet to operate it, sometimes, Eggsy had the pleasant surprise of opening the door to find him smiling at him on the other end (Harry smiled like a man unused to that shift in his muscle, though the google photos told a different story).

After another minute, Eggsy hitched the grocery bags onto one hand and fished for the key. He hadn’t thought he’d needed it, but Harry had insisted for just in case. Did he step out and he hadn’t remembered to tell Eggsy? Seemed unlikely. In the last three weeks, Harry had only gone out of the house once and that was to see his therapist.

‘Harry!’ Eggsy called, tugging the key free from the door. He kicked it shut and heard the click of the automatic clock setting into place. ‘It’s Eggsy!’

The house was quiet. Quiet than it usually was, anyway. There weren’t any dust motes so Eggsy knew Martha had been by sometime over the weekend, but even though he thought he shouldn’t, he still wary about Harry being in this big house by himself. Didn’t the silence get to be too much? Eggsy thought he’d lose his mind surrounded by this much stillness.

‘I stopped by that Grape Tree place you said had the best turmeric,’ Eggsy went on, crab-walking over to the kitchen before dumping the grocery bags atop the counter. ‘I was thinking of making a curry today. What do you think?’

There wasn’t a response, and that didn’t sit right with Eggsy. Harry could be contemplative, the silence ringing out whilst he thought something over. But he had never not greeted Eggsy when he’d come by to cook for him. Eggsy would go to the kitchen and eventually, Harry would shuffle in. Sometimes, perching at the breakfast and telling Eggsy all about some dish or other he’d tried somewhere foreign that had made an impression, all whilst Eggsy prepped their lunch and tried not too small too hard at Harry’s hitched breaths of offence when Eggsy goaded him on purpose.

(‘I once visited Tiho Chi; a small island off the coast of Indonesia. I was served this dish called Mao Ti; it means flayed fish. Rice and sauteed vegetables, but it was the fish itself the main prize of the night. Pan fried so that the skin was crispy, but the flesh itself still raw and soft; they seasoned it with herbs native to the island. They served the entire thing on a hotplate. I thought it quite exquisite, from presentation to flavour.’

‘Not going lie, Harry; that sounds proper funky. I don’t even like sushi.’

‘It was the island’s cultural dish, Eggsy. And many a good number of people pay to have the food cooked by the locals.’

‘Well, not me, guv. And I think I’ll stick to me usual fish and chips, thank you.’

‘How patriotic of you, Eggsy.’)

‘Harry?’ Eggsy called again, unable to help the worry creeping into the hoarse crack of his voice. He went back into the corridor, only realising then how dark the corridor was. Not that it’d matter to Harry either way, but the curtains were usually drawn when Eggsy arrived. He listened out for a creak or shuffle, or even the clink of ice as Harry swirled around his drink. There was nothing.

Eggsy went to the drawing room first, Harry’s go-to place. But the curtains were drawn and the leather cold; no one had sat in it for a while. Still, there was empty bottle on scotch on the coffee table, and a ring of moisture where someone hadn’t used a coaster. Odd that, Harry had insisted on its importance; for the furniture’s protection, he’d said.

 Eggsy got to searching the rest of ground floor then, his pace that little bit more hurried, though he was telling himself there was no need to panic, Harry was very much capable and had been doing just fine before Eggsy came into his life. And frankly, wasn’t it just insulting to assume that Harry would need, let alone want, Eggsy around more than they’d initially agreed?

Still, logic didn’t help when with each room, Eggsy didn’t catch a look at the head of curls he’d grown so familiar with in such a short space of time. Eggsy was exerting more energy than the stresses across his body could bare, so soon after a beating but Eggsy hardly noticed it as he came back to the entryway. He was just about to pull out his phone, dial the number for this Merlin-man (really, who the fuck named their kid that?) that Harry had told him to call in the event of an, unlikely, emergency. But then Eggsy heard it.

Piano keys. Nothing fancy, just the press of a few keys at a time; Eggsy would say almost whimsically, a tumbling melody to emulate a child taking the piss. But just as the mockery begun, the tempo changed; now the lower keys had their time stretched out, to haunt; the house seemed to expand and shrink under their assault.

Throughout this, Eggsy slowly made his way up the stairs, the phone still in hand, held tightly. He knew what the layout would look like, thanks to Luke, but Eggsy had never gone upstairs himself. Whilst Harry wouldn’t have known, it didn’t feel right to snoop. Even with a map in his head though, Eggsy still couldn’t pinpoint the exact location of the melody, at first.

He entered a room, only for the dust to tickle his nostrils; the furniture’s were covered in white blankets, the curtains drawn. Eggsy eased the door shut and continued down the corridor. Two more rooms later (all with the dust to tell of their disuse, their furniture hidden underneath blankets) he found Harry.

Harry was sat on a low bench, a piano at his fingertips. Pale light from the drawn curtains bathed over his still-too-thin frame; there wasn’t much Eggsy could have done in two weeks, with only lunch preps, but the red robe against pale skin made it seem like his efforts had been redundant, at their best. Harry’s curved spine stood out; the messy sprawl of his hair; the untamed mass of his beard. Bare feet laid flat against the hardwood floor, which was cold; Eggsy could feel it through his socks.

It took Eggsy a moment to realise that Harry was humming. He didn’t want to disturb; for a moment, he considered the fact that he didn’t have the right to. He was only with Harry for a few hours ago; he wasn’t at liberty with what the man did with the rest of his time. But that haunting tune continued, Harry’s hum another layer of discomfort in the room. Eggsy was walking forward before he’d even come to a proper decision.

‘Harry?’ he called, as gently as he could manage, but it didn’t matter; Harry still startled, the piano keys clanging unpleasantly. Eggsy couldn’t even feel gratified that he’d managed to startle Harry in the way he’d been doing to Eggsy because the man near toppled from the bench, only saved from a face-plant by Eggsy’s quick reflexes. ‘Wow, Harry. Easy, yeah–’ Eggsy started but then flinched back when the stench of alcohol wafting from Harry smacked him in the nose.

It clung to the older man; his skin greasy. When Harry tipped his head Eggsy’s way, the pupils were dilated, glazed over. Harry opened his mouth and Eggsy grimaced at the dead thing that was living in there.

‘Eggsy?’ Harry mumbled, leaning into Eggsy’s touch; he felt frail underneath Eggsy’s hands, thin enough that a strong breeze could sweep him off his feet. Eggsy had seen the pictures; he knew that Harry had always been lean, but never like this; skin pulled tight over bones. ‘Is that you, Eggsy?’

‘Yeah, Harry. It’s me. Eggsy.’ Eggsy said, gentle in a way he didn’t think possible when not directed at Daisy. Eggsy centred himself, forcing himself to breathe shallower. ‘What are you doing up here?’

‘Is it lunchtime? The time’s been getting away from me,’ Harry said, as if he hadn’t heard Eggsy. He tried to shuffle away then, fingers reaching for the watch with the raised hands on his wrist, but he was too unsteady, his fingers shook too much. Eggsy migrated his hands to Harry’s own and hissed at the cold of them.

‘Fuck, Harry. It’s not even eleven yet,’ Eggsy muttered, more to himself than to Harry.

Eggsy had realised that the man drank more than usual; the glasses littered around the ground floor, forgotten about, made that clear even if the bottles in the bin didn’t. It was why Eggsy had introduced fruit juices to their lunches; he’d thought that Harry might say something, but like everything else Eggsy gave him, he didn’t argue.

But how many bottles did Harry go through in a day, Eggsy wondered, not minding his business when he told himself that he should. And how much had the man drank today? Enough to have slumped now against Eggsy; shivering despite his cold limbs, flesh sweating out alcohol.

A lot, Eggsy surmised. A-liver-damaging-a lot.

 More gutted than he had expected to feel, Eggsy recognised the signs. From his mum, Dean and his mates. Whilst the latter’s got more violent, and his mum dazed enough to sleep, Harry babbled. If he was a little less coherent, Eggsy would be dialling 9-9-9.

‘I hated the piano,’ Harry said, the words a wet mumble on Eggsy’s nape. Eggsy wasn’t kneeled properly to take Harry’s weight; the hardwood was unforgiving on his knees, and Eggsy’s ribs wasn’t quite healed enough, but he didn’t dare mouth. ‘I couldn’t fucking stand it. But it is what mother made me play. For hours... And hours. And hours. Hours… Didn’t much help me like the damn thing any better.’

‘Then, why you up here, Harry?’ Eggsy asked, his tone as soft as Harry’s own had gone. He watched the dust motes float over the top of Harry’s hair and just about stopped his hand from reaching up to the strands. ‘Why are you playing something you don’t like?’

‘Because I’m a masochist,’ Harry chuckled, but it was without humour. ‘And I wanted to see… See. You don’t need sight to play the piano. I thought about having a career change. Seemed fitting. A career change to go with the midlife crisis.’

Eggsy adjusted his hold on Harry; the man had gone even laxer, limbs heavier, but he didn’t sound like he was at any risk of falling asleep. ‘What do you think now?’ Harry glanced at the piano, at the dust that coated it. ‘You think it’ll work?’

‘Nah,’ Harry said, his accent suddenly sounding so much like Eggsy’s that it made Eggsy snort. ‘I still hate the bloody thing.’

Harry went quiet then, and Eggsy didn’t much want to disturb him; he was sure that Harry was thinking things that Eggsy would never dream to think of. And it was nice, to be like this, even with everything else. Underneath the alcohol, Harry still smelt like himself, strongest at his nape. Eggsy stopped himself from inhaling too deeply though, that would be weird. After a few more minutes, only when his knees and ribs started to protest more insistently, Eggsy said,

‘Come on, Harry. Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable, yeah?’

Eggsy  

Harry wasn’t steady enough on his feet to properly walk, so Eggsy carried most of his weight. That wasn’t helpful to his standing injuries, but Eggsy gritted his teeth.

‘We’re coming at the stairs, Harry,’ Eggsy warned, but Harry didn’t say anything. He let Eggsy guide him, easy as a tot; Eggsy felt his frown grow deeper the more time passed and Harry made no protest. He didn’t the type to let himself be led around like this; drunk or not.

When Eggsy got him into the drawing room, in his usual armchair, Harry sunk inwards, doing nothing to hold his head up. He had his head tipped to the ceiling, though Eggsy knew he was seeing nothing. He was so still that Eggsy stepped closer, fingers to the other man’s neck, to check that his heart still beat. Harry didn’t so much as flinch.

Eggsy stood around for a bit, not knowing what he should actually do next. Harry should bathe; that’d help him feel a bit better, wouldn’t it? But Harry wasn’t steady enough to stand on his own, and Eggsy didn’t want to breach the man’s privacy, especially when he wasn’t sober enough to tell Eggsy to beg off.

There was one thing Eggsy could do, though. The same thing he’d been doing for the last three weeks. He could feed Harry; he probably hadn’t even eaten breakfast. He’d once admitted that he didn’t buy into it being the most important meal of the day; Eggsy just thought that he couldn’t be bothered to make himself a meal.

And even if he could bother, it wouldn’t be an easy task. Did Harry know where things were in the cupboards? Would he know what the ingredients were without having to open the lids? How would he manage the gas hobs without burning himself?

These weren’t questions that Eggsy had ever had to think about, and even after meeting Harry, he hadn’t much thought about it either. Harry so often held himself as if he knew exactly where everything was. But of course, he didn’t.

Eggsy made them sandwiches, and a fruit salad for dessert. He’d been having a go at making the juices from scratch and brought out the pineapple juice he’d made Harry the other day. Eggsy would need to clean out the fridge soon though, the food he’d put in Tupperware for Harry to have something to easily reheat over the weekend still there, and moulding. Eggsy sighed, then carried their lunch into the drawing room.

Unsurprisingly, Harry was still in the same position he’d been left.

‘Avocado, tomato and basil,’ Eggsy said, having settled the plates atop the coffee table. ‘I bought that seeded bread you talked about the other day.’

Harry was quiet, and Eggsy half expected that he’d need to come up with a way to stir the man into eating. But then Harry said, ‘Thank you, Eggsy.’

Eggsy then almost asked Harry if he wanted some help, which would have been a numpty of a thing to do. Harry wasn’t an invalid, and definitely not when it came to this.

Eggsy took his usual spot on the other sofa and watched as the other man sat up, painstakingly slow, as if his bones were grinding uncomfortably together with every move he made. Harry held out his hands, feeling the space in front of him until his hand bumped into the plate, then the sandwich. His hand shook as he raised the sandwich to his mouth, but he eventually managed. Eggsy, though, only looked away when he was sure that Harry wouldn’t suddenly throw up, or choke, or vomit and choke at the same time.

‘Mhm. Very good, Eggsy,’ said Harry.

‘It’s only a sandwich,’ Eggsy replied, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t chuffed by the praise; the warm feeling didn’t last long though.

‘Why do you run drugs, Eggsy?’ Harry asked. He had a basil leaf in his beard and olive oil over his lips.

‘I don’t anymore,’ said Eggsy.

‘I’d think not. I pay you enough not to.’

Eggsy bristled at that, though he was self-aware enough to know that it was his pride that got rankled. And Harry wasn’t lying; an unpleasant truth was still a truth.

‘You answered your own question then,’ Eggsy said. He didn’t ask Harry how he knew what Eggsy’s day-job had been; he wouldn’t insult Harry’s smarts like that. He did ask: ‘Why’d you hire me? If you knew what I did.’

‘I wanted a homecooked meal at least once a door–’

‘Don’t bluff, Harry. I know you got the money to hire a professional. Why didn’t you?’ They didn’t usually do this; hit at the eye of why they were at opposites and why, if things weren’t what they were, whatever they were, they’d never be the type of people to be in each other’s circle. ‘Offering a burglar was a pretty dumb thing to do, Harry. Not calling the coppers even more.’

Harry chewed his sandwich. Eggsy thought he would not answer, or he’d changed the topic, but then he was saying, ‘I had hoped that you might kill me.’

‘Fucking hell, Harry!’

‘Second time the charm,’ Harry said, unruffled by Eggsy’s tone. ‘I’m under no illusion that you’ve never handled a gun before, Eggsy. Is your aim good?’

‘I wouldn’t have shot you!’ Eggsy snapped, as if that was the main issue at hand. ‘And what do you think now? That I might take advantage and beat you up?’

‘Of course, not. You’re more intelligent than to leave such a mess–’

‘For fuck’s sake, Harry–’

‘You have to understand, Eggsy. I never thought that I’d have to live like this–’

‘Like, what? A guy’s who’s got enough money to do what he wants, answering to no one, ten times over–’

‘I don’t want to live like this.’ Harry’s words held notes of finality, as if he’d thought over the decision from multiple angles and had reached a conclusion not likely to change. Eggsy opened his mouth to– What?

Yeah, he didn’t think it was easy living without being able to see stuff. But in this day and age, weren’t there things to help with that? People could still live their lives, full lives, right? Yeah, it wouldn’t be the same, the world not looking the same, but Harry had survived something that should have been impossible. Didn’t that mean something? Shouldn’t it? He’d gotten a second chance.

‘Harry–’

‘You’ll have to make some other sandwiches,’ said Harry. ‘How about salmon and cream cheese? Or cucumber and cream cheese? Or would that be too posh for your sensibilities?’

Annoyance fired through Eggsy; over Harry’s suddenly easy tone, cheeky even; over Harry’s ability to say the most damning of things, then compartmentalise it away; over Eggsy’s inability to figure out what he should do to stop it. Should he even? Eggsy wasn’t nearly around enough to be dumped with this responsibility; he had his problems, he didn’t need Harry’s own. But even as Eggsy thought that, he knew it wasn’t going to be that easy.

From the moment Harry offered him a drink, Eggsy had felt something draw itself between himself and the other man. Only solidified when Harry had let Eggsy into his home, and instead of letting the law beat into Eggsy as he’d resigned for, had offered him a job. Something to help get Eggsy on his feet. Eggsy didn’t think Harry realised the potentials he’d given Eggsy. It wasn’t a decision to debate over then; Eggsy stepping into Harry’s business. How could he ever not, with how they’d started.

Eggsy considered Harry’s sandwich suggestions, making some of his own. With the curtains now parted, the afternoon sun hung high and made sweat roll down the sides of their glasses of pineapple juice. Harry complimented that as well, and Eggsy played it down, as he usually did. But Eggsy was thinking about things; about Harry’s will to live, and how Eggsy could keep it going.

Eggsy  

Eggsy’s second paycheck left him more gobsmacked than the first did. In ready for the first one, he’d had Martha help him set up a Lloyd’s bank account– Harry wasn’t the type to do stuff without a paper trail, apparently. But seeing the money in the account, Eggsy couldn’t help but help back fall back against his bedsheets. For the second time.

It was too much, he thought. Then, Harry, you wanker.

Eggsy didn’t think he did nearly enough to warrant this amount– Harry wouldn’t even let him shop for groceries from his own pocket! Even when Eggsy said he was doing his own shop at the same time. And Harry was apologising, using money to get his point across, as if the verbal sorry hadn’t been enough.

(‘I want to apologise for my behaviour the other day, Mr Unwin,’ he started, which immediately set Eggsy to so annoyed that he didn’t initially digest the context behind the words Harry was saying. Eggsy hadn’t given the man his government name to pull this formal shit on him! ‘My behaviour was unbecoming; unforgiveable from an employer, even.’

Eggsy then realised what Harry was doing and got even more annoyed. Harry had shown something of himself, a weak spot, the soft skin of his inner elbow, and behind his knee; Eggsy figured that Harry wasn’t the type to let people see him as anything less than polished. He didn’t give them the chance; and even before the piano room thing, Eggsy had seen more than Harry probably showed anyone else. So, now, he was backtracking, putting a wall between them. Eggsy wasn’t entirely surprised when Harry added,

‘I would understand if you wanted to now resign. I will, of course, still pay you for the month, and there is no notice period that you will have to work–’

‘Harry? Shut up, yeah?’

‘Mr Unwin–’

‘Yeah, no. That ain’t going to work.’ At Harry’s pinched expression, Eggsy hotly went on: ‘What are you going to do next? Start calling me “Gary”?’ Even as he asked the question, a shiver of repulsion ran down Eggsy’s arms. He didn’t look like a Gary, did he? What the hell had his parents thinking when they gave him the shit name? (Take That, apparently.) ‘Your soup’s going cold, Harry.’  

Harry had made a face then; like he’d taken a bit of marmite with his toast and didn’t like it. Eggsy almost laughed, because it was so like Harry to get annoyed that he hadn’t been allowed to be properly martyr a good thing. And Eggsy did think they had a good thing going on between then; or at least, it could become a good thing, if given the chance.

‘I ain’t going nowhere less you don’t want me no more,’ Eggsy said, and he thought he covered his real feeling pretty well. He wouldn’t try to convince Harry otherwise if he really wanted Eggsy gone; Eggsy wouldn’t do himself in like that. But he had to admit that it’d really suck if Harry gave him the sack; no so much for the pay check he’d lose, but the man’s company, also. Whoever knew that Eggsy would grow greedy to hear about the fine differences between different classical musicians?

‘I want you here, Eggsy,’ said Harry and Eggsy looked back at him. Harry looked uncertain; his spoon held loose in his hand.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes,’ Harry then said, sounding surer, as if he’d reached the end of his considerations. And had concluded that it’d better to keep Eggsy around. Eggsy had already figured that out for himself, but it was good that Harry was getting that now. It could only mean good things for the future.

‘Good. Now finish your soup.’

‘I rather like the blend of pumpkin and garlic,’ Harry then went on, as if nothing painstaking had been said. For once, Eggsy didn’t agonise over it. ‘One does not overpower the other; the flavours are balanced quite well.’

‘Guv, I just tossed things into the pan, yeah?’ Then, ‘But I’m glad you like it.’)

Eggsy turned onto his front now, phone cradled between his palms. He wondered whether it’d be a bit much; he’d already texted Harry that morning, to remind him of the time that Eggsy would be round for lunch. A little bit earlier, so Eggsy could sort out the cupboards, the fridge, and put labels on the jars he’d both bought from Amazon (there were stickers in brail-writing that Eggsy could stick to the jars, so Harry’d be able to read what was in the jars). Not that Eggsy had made clear what he’d be doing; he didn’t want Harry shoehorning the idea before they even tried it out, something Eggsy thought Harry would do; the stubborn git.

It wasn’t just that made Eggsy hesitate though. Harry had given Eggsy his number some weeks ago now, but Eggsy only started making more use of it the last week.

Innocent texts, Eggsy thought; asking Harry’s opinion on ingredients; showing Harry the rank state of the train on an early commute; sunset over the river Thames. Eggsy always waited five minutes before he allowed himself to switch over to hovering over Merlin’s number, but Harry always answered before that time. Harry had probably already figured Eggsy out, but he hadn’t called him out on it.

Daisy made a spit bubble babble then, and Eggsy glanced at where she was doing tummy time on the playmate that he’d laid over his floor. Her face was turned towards him, face rosy and eyes bright. Eggsy smiled, easily as was his usual when faced with her happy smiles. She was wearing this new onesie he’d bought her last weekend; it had little daisies littered on it. Daisy looked especially cute today and Eggsy had already taken about a thousand pictures of her, then spammed the group chat with Ryan and Jamal.

(They grow up so quickly, said Ryan, followed by a tear-eyed, emoji.

Sap, Eggsy had texted back, even as he felt slightly choked up by how well Daisy had grown from that wee underweight baby.)

‘Stop faffing about, yeah?’ He said, imaging that she was telling off for second-guessing himself into a face-plant into his covers.

Still, Eggsy took a breath before he fired off his first text to Harry; it was late enough in the morning that he figured the man was up already (and hopefully, not drinking, but Eggsy, of all people, knew that you couldn’t will someone into forgetting about the lull of a alcohol).

I got the money. Then, a couple of seconds later, Eggsy added, A bit much, innit?

Eggsy jumped up form the bed then, getting himself ready for the day ahead. No sooner though, had he stuck his head through a polo did his phone ping with his message. He launched himself back at the bed.

Nonsense. You are paid as expected for services excellently rendered.

Eggsy chuckled, not so much at Harry’s words (he’d expected them), but the perfect punctuation. Harry thought the text speak of Eggsy’s general “abominable” and Harry just found it funny that Harry would even use that word. It was telling of their age gap though; not something that Eggsy could forget about, not exactly, but now he was thinking about more often.  

Harry was twenty-four years older than Eggsy… Old enough to be Eggsy’s dad.

I do not accept refunds, was the next text Harry sent, and Eggsy laughed, distracted for the time being, from the matter of ages. Eggsy could imagine it, Harry speaking to his phone, a scowl and determination on his face.

Eggsy quickly texted back. Yeah, yeah. I won’t try it. Then, thanks. Eggsy didn’t just mean for the money; he meant for Harry seeing him (not literally, of course), giving him a chance, buying those cookbooks that was a bit redundant with the advent of the internet but were nonetheless appreciated. Did Harry understand that?

You’re most welcome, Eggsy, said Harry, and Eggsy imagined Harry’s face again. Soft to match his tone. Harry didn’t try to dismiss Eggsy’s text with the words that he’d only done as expected of employer to employee. Maybe, Harry did understand then.

Harry

Harry was making himself a cup of tea; in the background, a guest on BBC Radio talked about the dwindling numbers of a specific type of fish. Who knew there’d be consequences to all the sewage that was being dumped into the rivers?

Hot water, tea bag, let it steep for a minute or so. Remove the tea bag, add some honey, then lemon juice, freshly squeezed. Stir, add a dollop of cream. Instructions that Harry knew fairly well and had thought himself capable of managing with his eyes closed. A load of bollocks that. He felt for the kettle and managed to not add boil skin to the mug. The tea ended up too strong, unsweetened (because he didn’t know where the fucking sugar was and just the thought of having to open and close jars to find it left him exhausted); after the third sip, Harry thought to chuck the entire thing down the drain. But then his front door opened.

‘Eggsy?’ Harry called, though he should have known better. The intruder was far too even footed and quiet with their entrance, where often, Eggsy was snapping curses, sounding bedraggled with the load of shopping that Harry would hear swishing about his form, the plastic straining in his grip. ‘Ah, Merlin,’ said Harry, correcting himself before the other man could. The footsteps stopped a few feet from him. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘You’ve made yourself a cup of tea,’ said Merlin, sounding as astonished as if Harry had committed to boasting about a particularly niche talent that he hadn’t bothered to tell the man about until that very moment. Again.

‘A shit cup of tea,’ Harry said, even as if he took another sip. ‘Want some?’

‘I’ll make myself a cuppa.’

‘If you like.’ Harry’s tone remained fairly distinguished, he thought.

Merlin started knocking on about the place, taking things down from cupboards, opening the fridge, turning on the kettle for another boil. He made a comment about the fairly organised set of things, just loud enough that Harry would hear, and perhaps, care to make a reply. ‘You have quite a few Tupperware’s in the fridge. I was not aware that Martha was now cooking your supper.’

But Harry knew why Merlin was here, and he would not be so easily spurred into being the first to broach the topic.

Harry did say, however, ‘She is not.’ Eggsy. It was all, Eggsy. It wasn’t enough that the boy cooked his lunches, he also stretched himself to prepare meals that Harry could easily warm in the microwave on the weekends when he had his time off. Then, there was the premade breakfast foods, and the snacks for dinner, all arranged by shelf (breakfast at the top, dinner at the bottom), so that Harry could better judge what he was picking out. Eggsy seemed quite intent on feeding Harry to fullness and Harry found, strangely so, that he didn’t mind the fussing.

‘An art piece has been chosen for the front cover of Penguin’s classical publications,’ said Merlin. Harry felt the air shift beside him and knew that the other man had mimicked him; both leaned against the counter, mugs in hand; Harry wondered whether Merlin had gone for his usual: “bald lives matter”. Harry had thought himself terribly funny when he’d bought it, and it was funny, no matter what Merlin’s placidity implied otherwise. ‘The theme was “Hidden Details”, if you recall. There was a great deal of yellow paint used.’

‘Yellow symbolises happiness and creativity. Caution, as well,’ said Harry. Perhaps, surprising Merlin that he’d dare to comment, rather than change the subject, or not speak, at all. ‘A fine colour that encompasses the themes of eighteenth-century literary works.’

‘There is an exhibit at the end of August. A largely small affair: the kids will speak about the ideas behind their paintings.’ A pause, in which Harry contemplated whether he cared for how rude it would be to just, walk away, then Merlin started: ‘I do think you should attend, Harry. You took part in these events for years, and even though you cannot see the final products, you’ve always enjoyed hearing about the artist behind the art and–’

‘I often wonder whether anyone would notice, whether it would truly matter,’ Harry said. He knew that he did not make much sense, interrupting as he had and starting in the middle of his train of thought. But it was a thought he’d been harbouring for the last week, and months before that. Since the accident; the attack. ‘We are all meant to die, and we all eventually do. When death inevitably calls for us, others have no choice but to move on. There is nothing else for it… It does not matter if we go now, or later; life will go on.’

‘What are you saying, Harry?’ asked Merlin; in a tone that implied for Harry’s caution.

But even whilst Harry had gotten older, his heeding for the warning signs had not much improved. ‘I should have died that night, Merlin.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Harry.’ Merlin didn’t often swear. He was too couth for that; Harry had always been the vulgar one. ‘Not this again–’

‘Had I died that night, then I would not be here–’

‘Living?’

‘Suffering.’ Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line, but just as soon parted once more. ‘And it is that, Merlin.’

‘James told me about your dramatics; about you thinking that your life meant nothing if you did not have your art. I had thought to give you a few days to mellow out, think it over. When weeks passed and you hadn’t done anything horrid, I had thought you’d moved past it.’

‘No. I still think that my life is quite shit.’

‘Because you make it shit!’ Merlin snapped. Harry imagined that the plates rattled, the counters shook, the very ground trembled. He sounded more furious that he had in a long while. ‘And art is not your life; you are worth far more than that, Harry.’

‘I do not feel as if I am,’ Harry said.

And that was the crux of it all, wasn’t it? Harry’s parents had both been artists in their own right, revered and awarded for their talents. They’d pitted Harry against the other, using him as a toy to demonstrate whose talent he had the knack for. Harry had painted as much as he had played that damn piano; there’d once been the fear that the paint fumes would make him go nose-blend. Instead, they’d gone straight to his head and made him grow a mohawk, crass his father’s car and pierce his nipples (not in that order).

Some parents pressured their children to follow the more traditional route of employment, a doctor, politician, a lawyer. Harry’s parents had thought such professions uncultured. The work of the layman, chained to a nine-to-five or back-breaking work hour weeks. Not that the life of a painter was any less mentally straining. But it provided better conversation points in upper society; if one knew about art, then they also knew about literature, and music, and the greats of each.

Lucky Harry, he eventually found enjoyment in his creativity, though only once independent from the influence of his parents. Lucky Harry, that he’d had the opportunity to paint as he liked, no theme too conservative or liberal for the direction of his hands. For years, Harry had watched colour bleed into realism, impression, a hyperrealism that Harry had thought, at the time, would near make him lose his mind (he hadn’t, and he’d won several awards for the piece). Harry’s hands were as much his prized commodity, as his eyesight, that latter, the key to all that reminded him of why he had the will to live.

To live in colour, then to live in nothing but blackness; it felt like a first death.

‘You don’t try,’ said Merlin. Harry did not know how long the quiet had reigned, but his mug had gone cold against his fingertips. ‘There are plenty of ways to keep you independent. Hell, to even let you be an artist again, in all the ways that matter. But you do not try. Stubborn as you are to sulk and drink your days away. I understand that this difficult. That you’ve lost a large part of yourself.’ Merlin took a deep breath then, but his words still shook when he next said them, ‘But by God, man. Is there truly nothing else that gives you the will to live? James? Me?’

Harry had met Merlin as a small boy. By first appearance, it hadn’t seemed that they’d ever get along, Harry too certain on his path to do whatever he could to embarrass his parents, and Merlin not standing for fools. One shared detention had changed their future’s, however; Merlin done in for punching a twit who’d been annoying him, and Harry, for playing Bohemian Rhapsody on the organ at Sunday Mass.

‘Or do you truly blame me for the attack? So much so that I’ve forever lost your trust, your faith; your ability to give a damn–’

‘I do not blame you, Merlin,’ Harry said, as he had before.

‘I was meant to protect you.’

Harry frowned at the anguish heard in Merlin’s voice. ‘And you had. Your security team are top-notch, Merlin, I never doubted it. But there is rather little that one can do when faced, point-black, with a gun. We are not invulnerable.’

‘Valentine should not have been able to get that close. I should have known. Or at least suspected.’

Harry’s frown deepened. He had thought it over; when he’d been recovered enough, and cognizant enough, less depressed by his sudden disability, and better able to process information. In retrospect, Valentine’s plans had been obvious. Obsession, jealousy and greed; seen in his firm handshakes, his system hoard of Harry’s sold paintings, going to great lengths to purchase them from buyers; the man’s remarks of underhanded tactics, just enough to bloat the media articles with accusations that Harry used nepotism to buy his way into his awards.

 Valentine had wanted what Harry had, he wanted what he saw as, Harry’s theft from him; it did not cross the man’s mind that he should just be better. No. Harry stood in his way, and Harry needed to be eliminated…

It was only a small consolation that Valentine had bene shot just after he’d shot Harry, and that, unlike Harry, he did not survive.

‘I do not blame you, Merlin,’ Harry repeated, firmer in tone. It was important that Merlin understood that; he had not lost Harry’s trust, or faith, or care. Such feelings were directed at one person, and one person alone. The careless one, the arrogant one; the one who had thought himself larger than life itself, incapable of being brought to heel. Bitterness scorched Harry’s words when he said: ‘I blame myself.’

‘Harry–’

‘Harry, guv! It’s boiling out there; the pavement’s bloody melting.’ Eggsy. Coming in like a freight train, a racket of bags and clothes and boxes. Harry heard him immediately make for the kitchen, as his usual, though he was quicker about these days, all the better so he could check that Harry was somewhere on the ground floor and not re-attempting another performance of sad, old man. ‘I bought some ice-cream for us to have for dessert ‘cause I feel like I might fucking die otherwise– Oh.’

Harry wanted to see Eggsy’s face; he wanted that with a sudden burning fever. Did Eggsy have freckles? Where we they? Were they like scattered fireworks or did they dot a star line across his skin? Did his forehead already have wrinkle lines? Where did his blush settle when the sun made blood rise to the surface of his skin?

Harry choked with the onslaught of questions, quite like a dam’s wall had been breached; feelings he had not yet allowed himself to poke at, let alone hear the whispers of, swarmed his head, making him quite lightheaded.

Not too soon after the start of the deluge though, Harry felt fingers press into his wrist, corking rushing water, steadying him; he thought it was Merlin until he smelt the lavender.

‘Are you alright, Harry?’ Eggsy’s touch was warm, warmer still when those fingers circled Harry’s wrist. It must not be pleasant, Harry’s skin often mimicked the temperature of a freezer, but Eggsy’s grip only tightened once, then twice. Harry looked up, even though he could not see him.

‘You’re early,’ said Harry.

‘I’m late, actually. Got held up on the tube. And I said I was coming by earlier to set up some things. Remember?’

Ah, Harry thought. Eggsy had mentioned, though hadn’t gone into detail. Harry wasn’t as worried as he perhaps should have been. His fingers flexed, the captured wrist. Eggsy took it for the request to let go that it wasn’t, and Harry sighed.

‘Eggsy, it’s nice to finally meet you.’ Merlin. He sounded neutral enough, but Harry knew him well enough to hear the scepticism, and suspicion. Harry had known better than to think that the two would never meet; Merlin was far too insistent in being a part of Harry’s life. And by all means, Harry had not tried to hide Eggsy’s employment; he’d ask Merlin to contact the lawyers for an employment contract, after all. But if this meeting could have been delayed for several weeks more, Harry would not have minded.

‘Ah, yeah, I’m Eggsy. And you’re Merlin, yeah?’

‘You are correct.’

‘What type of name’s Merlin though?’

‘A nickname,’ said Merlin, in a way that implied teeth. ‘If you come closer, I’ll whisper my real name into your ear.’

A pause, then Eggsy’s huffed chuckle. ‘Yeah, no. I’m alright, bruv.’

‘We all seem to be lovers of nicknames around here,’ then said Merlin, sounding a little bit impressed, though Harry was sure that he was the only one who heard it. ‘Yourself included. Harry’s nickname is Galahad, did you know?’

‘Galahad like a Knight from Arthur’s Round table?’ Eggsy sounded incredulous.

‘Leftover childishness from our boarding school days,’ Harry dismissed. ‘Merlin’s the only one to keep the codename’s going.’

‘And Percival.’

‘James is a wanker,’ said Harry, and he quite realise what he’d said until Eggsy was laughing. Then Harry’s face flamed. Because he knew that it was Merlin’s turn to be incredulous, and such incredulity would be directed towards him. ‘Merlin was just leaving,’ Harry was quick to say, but Merlin could have no tact when he wanted something, so he said,

‘My schedule is clear actually, so I might stick around for lunch. Eggsy doesn’t mind, does he?’

‘Well, yes.’ Harry started. ‘He hadn’t planned lunch for three guests–’

‘Nah, bruv. I don’t mind,’ interrupted Eggsy. And Harry could not help the sense of betrayal he felt and it must show on his face, for there was another laugh from Eggsy. ‘I’m making a carbonara. That fine with you, Merlin?’

‘That’s excellent, Eggsy,’ said Merlin, and Harry heard a smile then.

It only made Harry frown though, the press of Eggsy’s fingers against his wrist not entirely consolatory. As Eggsy started unloading his load, Harry stared in the direction of where he thought Merlin was. He hoped the other felt the might of disapproval. Judging from Merlin’s snort, he did, but the effect had not been as intimidating as hoped.

Harry

Lunch was wonderful, as always, and Harry felt fit to bursting. The ice-cream had been a splendid idea to cool them down. Whilst the house was temperature regulated, a heatwave was nevertheless mentally taxing. Eggsy mentioned that he might try to make the ice-cream from scratch, next time, and Harry made a mental note to purchase an ice-cream maker for the boy; he would not want his interests to be limited by the lack of equipment.

After lunch, their trio moved to the drawing room. Harry itched for a glass of cognac, but he was intent on keeping to his recent rule of not drinking in front of Eggsy. The fruit blend that the boy had whipped up tasted divine anyhow, very smooth and soothing on a parched throat and not too heavy on the stomach.  

As soon as all were settled, Merlin launched his interrogation. And whilst Harry sighed, he was glad that the man had at least waited until the end of lunch.

‘Do you go to school, Eggsy?’

Eggsy did not immediately respond, and Harry had the sense that the boy had turned towards him, but before Harry could think up a way to draw Merlin’s attention, and not make the man double down on his inquisition, Eggsy responded: ‘Nah.’

‘You work part-time for Harry, don’t you? I’m sure you could fit in some schooling around those hours–’

‘I got other stuff going on.’

‘Like what?’

Harry’s grip on his glass tightened, and he leaned forward, but he needn’t have worried. ‘Like looking after me sister, for one. But not like that’s any of your business.’

Merlin would try, but an eyebrow would raise. Was he offended or impressed? Incredulous? Harry had seen middle-aged men cower under the force of Merlin’s gaze; Harry considered himself mightily immune to Merlin’s brand of intimidating, but he had yet judge how Eggsy might fair.

Again, though, Harry needn’t have worried. ‘I don’t gotta explain my time to you.’

‘You were seemingly taken off the streets to work for Britain’s National Treasures,’ said Merlin, unruffled. And Harry felt at once mortified by the Merlin’s gall and offended by his audacity. ‘Unqualified and paid handsomely. As Harry’s Head of Security, and friend, it is my job to ensure that you do not have nefarious ulterior motives where Harry is concerned.’

‘Merlin, that is enough,’ said Harry but Eggsy said,

‘Nah. Let him ask his questions. It ain’t like I got something to hide.’

Except your history with drugs, Harry thought, but he figured that Eggsy knew well enough how to protect himself. Harry sighed, and did not give in to the temptation to rub at his temples. There was small mercies, and the fact that Merlin had not ambushed the boy without Harry’s presence was one of them.

‘Why did you accept the job offer?’

‘Cause I needed the cash, yeah? Ain’t going turn down a sweet offer in this economy.’

‘Have you spoken to the press recently?’

‘Fuck, no. What for?’

To be honest, Harry hadn’t thought about that, and it was primarily because Eggsy hadn’t given him reason to suspect. And even then, if Eggsy had sold information of the whereabouts of Britain, as Merlin said, National Treasure, Merlin would have known and wouldn’t be asking questions. The boy would have already been faced with a lawsuit. Frankly, the entre interrogation was rather pointless on Merlin’s part, if it was information he wanted. Harry was certain that the man had already done a thorough background check on Eggsy.

‘I am sure you’ve read about Harry’s attack on the internet,’ said Merlin. ‘You must possess some intellect and have concluded that there are people who would want to exploit Harry’s position. And there are people who have.’

Eggsy went quiet then, and Harry shifted uneasily in his seat, the leather squeaking up a nuisance. A part of Harry wanted to dismiss Merlin’s pointedness, but the other part wanted to be proven right. Eggsy was trustworthy; Harry hadn’t specifically though of it before, but he realised it now. He trusted Eggsy. A foolish feeling concerning their humble beginnings. But Harry might well feel it deeply if he were proven wrong.

‘Well, I ain’t like those people,’ said Eggsy. ‘I want to help Harry.’

‘And you think that by cooking him lunch you are helping him.’

‘I do more than that,’ Eggsy defended. Harry wanted whether his offence bloomed red in his cheeks. ‘And I thought of doing more even. I ain’t going baby him ‘cause Harry’s a full-grown adult. But I thought about some stuff that may be helpful to him. You know, to like help him get around the kitchen, at least. Make himself a proper cup of tea.’

Eggsy then went on to explain this special type of labels he’d ordered from Amazon and the jars he’d bought for essentials. Harry wasn’t quite sure how to feel about the thoughtfulness behind Eggsy’s tone, his actions. Harry didn’t think the boy should be spending his pay check on things for Harry, either.

‘And do you think I have not brought these ideas to Harry before–’ started Merlin, with a tone that easily surmised his annoyance, and anger that someone had thought to do just as he’d done. But whereas Harry had been stubborn to Merlin’s assistance, Harry only found a blooming warmth crowding in his chest when he thought of Eggsy making notes on how he might, supposedly, improve Harry’s life.

‘That is a wonderful idea, Eggsy,’ Harry said, and ignored Merlin’s rather rude what.

‘Yeah?’ Eggsy sounded hesitant, and Harry found that he did not like the sound of his lack of confidence. Eggsy should always be proud.

‘Yes. Do you think you might be able to add the labels to the Tupperware also? It was indeed ingenious to arrange them the way you did, but it would also be nice to know what dinner I am picking without having to first sniff it.’

Eggsy snorted, which made Harry smile. That was until Merlin’s incredulity took on a scoff. ‘This idea is at the basic of what available assistive aids could be utilised for Harry’s mobility and independence. I’ve been in discussion with several technological companies about the ways these assistive aids might be implemented in Harry’s home and utilised in helping him to leave the house. You know this, Harry. And yet you would easily agree to the ideas, which I had first brought your attention, from a criminal you picked off the streets!’

Harry would stare at Merlin, if he did not think his irises would not obey his mental command and ruin the effect of how unimpressed he was by Merlin’s jealousy. And that was what Harry supposed it to be: jealousy.

Merlin had made it difficult to attain him as a lifetime friend, but once the title was acquired, he’d become possessive. Harry had once found it amusing, comparing Merlin to a cat hoarding their best toy. But their years of friendship had proved that behaviour was not necessary. And frankly, Harry had come to expect better from Merlin. Eggsy was not the sum of his background, and the fact that nothing untoward had happened in the last few weeks of employment, should have been enough to assuage Merlin’s more heavy fears. Or, at the very least, Merlin could trust Harry’s judgment.

‘No offence, Merlin,’ said Eggsy, in a way that suggested he meant full offence. ‘I was hired by Harry, not you. If Harry’s got a problem, he’d tell me. I don’t take him for no pushover.’

 A quiet rang out then, only interrupted by Merlin’s heavy breaths (and probably, the force of Eggsy’s glare).

‘Apologies,’ said Merlin, after another moment. Harry knew him well enough to know that he didn’t really mean it (rather be stabbed, of course). ‘I seem to have overstepped. Though, I maintain my position. The communication I’ve had with these tech companies suggest potential benefits–’

‘I’m not getting anything implanted into my brain,’ said Harry.

‘Those are protypes, Harry. I was thinking more along the lines of an AI linked pair of glasses to help you with special navigation.’

Harry scowled. His teeth gritted and he felt the usual annoyance where Merlin and his efforts were concerned, no matter how unreasonable they were. He was intelligent; he knew that his friend only wanted to help him live a more mobile and independent life. But Merlin’s optimism was in stark contrast to Harry’s general mind to let himself waste away, blurred underneath the heaviness of alcohol, until he ceased to exist.

‘Why don’t you send me the links?’ asked Eggsy, and Harry’s head jerked in his direction. If the boy cared for Harry’s unfocused stare, there was no indication in his tone. ‘I’ll have a look, yeah? Maybe, we don’t start with anything tech heavy, but it makes sense to see what else is out there, right?’

Right.

Merlin knew what Harry’s answer would be, not that Harry would say it to Eggsy’s face. And perhaps, assessing that (the smart bastard), Merlin set aside his possessive inclinations and said, ‘I’ll email you.’

Harry wanted a strong drink; something to set him unconscious. But he also he wanted his eyesight back, if only to see what Eggsy’s face did when he said, ‘Aces.’

Harry drank his fruit juice. Because there was nothing else to do.  

Harry

Later, whilst Harry was leading Merlin to the door, Merlin asked Harry: ‘Does the boy play a contact sport of sort?’

Harry didn’t frown and he said, ‘Football. It can get quite combative.’

‘It’s a no-contact sport.’

‘I know,’ said Harry. And that was the last Merlin mentioned it (but he did not forget that Merlin did, or the fact of what Merlin didn’t.)

Harry

‘Have you been working on what he talked about?’ Imani asked.

And instead of lying, just on principle, Harry thought about his life. At first, the vacuum of it came easily to him. But that is not quite right, and Harry was doing a disservice to the last forty-nine years of life. So, he forced himself to squint.

There were scabbed knees, aching fingers and painted orange thumbs. Rugby and tackles that induced broken kneecaps. He remembered standing in an empty room and listening to the falling notes from an out of tune piano. Relationships drifted by the faces of lovers smiling, then glaring. At his back, a canvas depicted the bright scene of a field of daffodils.

Harry was not religious, despite his very catholic upbringing, but surviving a gunshot the face did make one more likely to put some things into perspective. Harry would not pray, he did not care for devote devotion, but he could be ungrateful, and he didn’t think he was worth the grace of the universe. He did not remember the scene, had not watched the video, and barely listened to Merlin’s recap. There was no tunnel and a glowing whiteness. If asked the sacred: where did you go when you died? Harry would say nowhere.

He should have died.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t have his eyes; he had his hands, but he still felt handless. Why could no one fucking understand that?

On one hand, Harry knew he was just needlessly punishing himself. Was he not deserving of the headaches, and the unbalanced state of him, the constant darkness? And if he wasn’t, who was he to deserve this half-life, and its stark truth that he’d spent most of his life giving everything to this one thing, that he could now live without. The fucking audacity for fate to prove his lifetime of devote devotion pointless.

‘Yes,’ said Harry. The task had been to quit being an arse and find at least one thing that could help him stop being a couch slob. ‘I made a proper cup of tea the other day.’

Hot water, tea bag, let it steep for a minute or so. Remove the tea bag, add some honey, then lemon juice, freshly squeezed. Stir, add a dollop of cream. Instructions that Harry knew fairly well and had thought himself capable of managing with his eyes closed; apparently, it hadn’t been too far-fetched of a supposition.

(According to Eggsy, Harry looked quite dignified. ‘All professional like in this tea-making business.’

‘I dropped the jar of cream.’

‘That was not you!’

‘It was a hand, attached to me–’

‘You weren’t ready for the weight of it. And who puts cream in their tea?’

‘Civilised people, Eggsy.’)

Eggsy had laughed instead of being insulted. Though, he turned out to be just as petty as Harry and later informed him that he’d recorded the entire thing and sent it off to Merlin. And Harry supposed that he should be angry, no less that Eggsy and Merlin were now on email-terms (Eggsy was intent on making it a texting relationship though) but he could not manage the feeling with the pleasure warring and near winning on the other side; it really had felt good to make himself his own proper cup of tea.

‘That is good, Harry. And I am glad that you tried Eggsy’s idea.’ She paused then, and Harry knew it was a pause and not a full stop. Imani didn’t so much force her opinion onto Harry, as he had accused her of doing, but was strategic in the verbal use of her thoughts. ‘Eggsy seems to be a good influence on you. You’ve gained some weight.’

‘I’m eating three meals a day,’ said Harry. He’d have to pay Eggsy more, since the boy was insistent on doing more than his contract had initially stipulated. And it went beyond just cooking, to encroaching on Martha’s work, though the woman had seemed pleased more than annoyed by Eggsy pushing her out of a job.

Not to say that Harry was ungrateful, but Harry did start to wonder as to Eggsy’s persistence. He did not suspect anything abominable, he trusted the boy to that degree, but Eggsy was a twenty-five-year-old man. Surely, there were better things to do with his day, than to have breakfast, lunch and dinner with an old man. Harry had tried not too ramble too much about his trips and the delicacies he’d had the fortune to try, but Eggsy had quickly told him:

(‘Don’t be daft. I like hearing you talk.’

‘It is rather boring though, is it not?’

‘Bored? Who’s bored? I ain’t.’

‘Eggsy–’

‘I ain’t ever been to those places, Harry. And I probably won’t ever. It’s nice to hear a first-person count. I don’t mind.’)

Strange, was what Harry concluded. But he was also beginning to think Eggsy quite brilliant in his thoughtfulness and kindness. The boy was an example of what became of a wonderful person not given the opportunity to become their best. So, strange, Harry thought, in that Eggsy chose to spend his days with Harry (though Harry was paying him to, it never really came it), he did not again try to convince the boy to resign.

‘I’m glad to hear that, Harry,’ said Imani. ‘You look healthier too.’ Harry imagined the smile in her voice reached her face. Was she a teeth smiler, or a cut to the corner of the lip type of a person? Even as he thought about the question though, Harry found that he could exhale through the restriction; he didn’t feel quite as confined by not knowing.

Chapter Text

Harry

Harry could hear Eggsy pottering about but since he was not yet inclined to tell Harry what he was doing, Harry was left to entertain himself. He had started with an online crossword but grew frustrated when he was too distracted to remember what he’d already inputted. Then he decided that he might listen to something calming; the garden show on BBC radio 1. But Harry’s interest in gardening begun and ended with his sketches; he was no more inquisitive about which plants the bees preferred and which trees should be pruned yearly for better harvest.

His watch told him that it was a quarter past, by no means late, but it was later than Eggsy usually stayed after dinner. Harry turned to where he thought Eggsy might be hovering and said, ‘I’m an only child.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ said Eggsy, but with such obvious falsity that Harry could have rolled his eyes. He must remember that Harry knew, courtesy of Merlin’s interrogations, that Eggsy had researched him, for he asked: ‘How was that? Did you ever want any siblings?’

‘I’m sure that in my youth I felt the need for sibling, if only so I could have someone to share in school angst.’

Eggsy snorted. ‘You didn’t like boarding school, then?’

‘It was an enlightening experience, I’ll say that.’

Going to an all-boys school had its benefits. For one, Harry had met Merlin, and for the sake of dramaticism, found a reason to keep himself going off the deep end (though Merlin might argue the nipple piercings were Harry going off the deep end). For two, Harry had been exposed to the belly of an attraction he had felt for quite some time, though with have been minded to forever ignore it if not for the constant exposure of the boys around him. He had not quite mustered the courage to, come out of the closet, as it were, by the time he turned eighteen, but he could privately laugh at his mother’s insistence that he would one day found the right, nice girl, and settle down.

‘Did you like school, Eggsy?’

‘It was alright.’ Harry imagined that Eggsy shrugged then. ‘I wasn’t one for sitting still in a classroom though. And the teachers weren’t always ready to explain the things I didn’t get. I never did me A-Levels.’

‘It’s a travesty of our state system; lack of funding and resources make it difficult to tend to the needs of students who might need more careful attention.’ Eggsy didn’t make a response to that, but Harry didn’t mind.

Harry had found himself thinking about such things recently and found it nauseating that he’d gone his whole life without truly considering life from a perspective not highlighted by his own privilege. Despite assumptions, it was not always so easy to just get off one’s arse, and work. The benefits and woes of class were still very distinct.

‘It’s just me self and me sister,’ offered Eggsy. Harry realised that he did this; for each piece of information that Harry gave, Eggsy met him halfway. Their conversations were still woefully surface level, but Harry knew these things could take him. ‘She’s way younger than me, though. Still a baby.’

‘Describe her to me.’

Eggsy made some sort of noise at that, and it was interrupted by the sound of something peeling off a sticky surface (what on Earth was the boy doing?) but he said, ‘Well, her name’s Daisy, and she likes tummy time a lot. Her favourite foods are mashed carrots and orange slices. She has a stuffed pug that she sleeps with every night.’

Harry smiled, easily able to imagine the image that Eggsy painted of his sister. He didn’t need a physical visual to imagine a little girl with a bright smile, a child clingy and easy to laugh.

‘She’s got green eyes, like mine. But she’s proper blonde where I’m a bit more brunette, like me da. Dais’ got the prettiest smile.’

‘She sounds lovely, Eggsy,’ Harry said.

There was a pause, then Eggsy started hesitant, though he sounded more confident by the end. ‘Maybe, you should meet her someday. You should meet her.’

For a moment, Harry thought he should decline. It wouldn’t do to mix the two aspects of their life; professional and personal. Then, Harry nearly laughed at himself. It had been the personal that led them to a not terribly professional relationship, so where did he get to having moral quandaries now?

Still, instead of confirming Eggsy’s invite, Harry tried something in-between: ‘That is why you always smell like baby powder then. Because of your sister.’

‘Oh, me?’ Harry imagined that Eggsy sniffed himself then, and the thought made Harry’s smile widen. ‘Eh, yeah. I don’t even put the stuff on me self. You got a good nose, Harry.’

‘Compensation for being a sense down.’

The thud of Eggsy’s feet sounded then, even whilst muffled by carpet. He approached Harry, who tilted his head to where he thought the boy hovered. Eggsy’s voice was softer than usual when he said, ‘Come on, I want you to try something.’

‘Are you finally going to tell me what you’ve been doing the last half hour?’

‘Why tell you when I can show you?’

‘Indeed.’ Harry finished the last of his juice, settled it on the coffee table. He then stood and waited.

Eggsy sounded hesitant again. ‘Uh, well. Should I like–’

‘Yes, Eggsy. You can touch my arm. I won’t find this thing you want to show me otherwise.’

‘Right.’ Harry kept his smile in check this time, as well as his felt inclination to lean closer to the boy. He did not well have many reasons to do so, except Eggsy had taken some things with the rest of the house and had cajoled Harry into being his earpiece whilst he worked. Harry was beginning to think he had a weakness where the whims of this boy was concerned. ‘Alright, just a few steps year. Just to the doorway.’

Eggsy was careless, leading Harry as if he were some toddler that was incapable of walking properly. Instead of feeling incensed, Harry felt rather fond instead. He heard Eggsy shift the coffee table aside, rather than navigating Harry around it and Harry finally felt himself smile. He realised this too, that he smiled more easily, and often, around the boy.

‘Right, just here. Lift their arm?’

Harry did as instructed and steadied his breaths when Eggsy’s warmer touch folded over the back of his hand. Eggsy had long fingers, calloused fingertips; his hand fit quite well over Harry’s own. Harry was stuck marvelling this, trying to judge where the lines of Eggsy’s palms intersected, that he did not realise that Eggsy had brought his hand to a hard surface. Harry stilled.

‘You need to press a bit firmer, Harry.’ Eggsy was close, a wall of warmth at Harry’s back, and though Harry had the sense the boy was shorter than him (his voice only ever sounded from below him when they stood in front of one another), the heat nevertheless felt ensconcing. It made Harry realise how cold he usually felt.

‘Like this?’

‘Yeah,’ Eggsy breathed, and a shiver threatened Harry’s spine; he instead focused on the object underneath his hand.

Before Harry could ask just exactly what Eggsy was having him do, there was a crackle, then the words of a timbred British man: ‘This is the drawing room.’

Harry stood still for a moment more, digesting the object, and the foreign man’s voice; it was not as smooth as Harry had initially judged, there was something clinically robotic underlying it. ‘You’ve been talking to Merlin,’ said Harry, and he realised how dull his words had been when he heard Eggsy’s shuffling feet.

‘Well, you knew that already.’

‘You’ve been talking with Merlin.’ The boy had removed himself from Harry’s sphere, far enough that Harry could no longer feel his warmth; Harry already missed it. ‘Are you mad?’

‘No,’ Harry said before he could fully take stock of himself. But then he judged that he wasn’t lying. Merlin had suggested this bit of tech before, a means for Harry to be able to tell which room he entered and Harry had steadfast refused, as he had every over aid that might help him. But now, he felt… rather touched. ‘This is what you’ve been doing this last week then?’

‘Yeah. Merlin said it’d be easier if you wore them glasses, he suggested for you. They’ve got in-built spatial sensors, or something like that he said. But we figured that you might be more accepting of this first.’

‘We, huh?’ said Harry. ‘You’ve known my best friend for less than a month and you’re both now collaborating against me.’

‘We care about you, don’t we?’ said Eggsy, not so much a question, even with the inflection, Harry thought. It made him think about Eggsy’s actions over the last few months, and he could conclude that it was care. A paternally reflected care? The thought made Harry itch but he would rather not think about why, or what that said about a man like him.

Instead, Harry chose ignorance, even as he said, ‘Thank you, Eggsy,’ and well-meant it. He felt Eggsy’s warmth presser closer again, even if just for a moment, and figured that the boy appreciated the sentiment.

Eggsy  

Things were going good, Eggsy thought. He had a job that paid well (more than well, considering his recent salary increase, though he’d argued to Harry’s deaf ears it wasn’t necessary. Eggsy was helping out more because he wanted to).

Eggsy had a job he liked; he was sort of turning into Harry’s handyman, though the man could definitely afford a professional. Eggsy had fixed the downstairs loo the other day and Harry spent the other time being unhelpful and telling Eggsy about why he had his dog, Mr Pickles, stuffed and pinned to the wall.

(‘Not going to lie, guv. It’s still fucking rank. Just like them butterflies.’  

‘I once entertained the thought of being lepidopterist.’

‘Why the fuck, Harry?’

‘Or studying medicine. If only to have my mother prematurely go grey-haired.’

Eggsy had paused then, not because he didn’t know what he do (he thought he knew what he was doing; YouTube said it was an easy fit. No, it was Harry sharing something about his personal life, and relationships, that made Eggsy pause. He didn’t want to press, but he also didn’t not want Harry to think he couldn’t talk about stuff like that with him.

‘Are you close then?’ Eggsy asked, trying for nonchalance (though Harry was smart, his ears sharp, and he probably heard just how invested Eggsy was in the answer, anyway. ‘You and your mum?’

‘A pair of scissors are closer to each other than I am to my own mother.’

‘Shit.’

‘Too right. I once thought she might be able to forgive that I chose a career of painting, rather than the piano, but her ability to hold grudges holds no bounds, the grand piano a testament of her pettiness.’

 ‘No, I mean– Well, yeah. That’s shit, like; you live your life for you, not like anyone else. But also like, I think I just removed something that I shouldn’t have, and we might be having a problem of flooding if I don’t fix it.’

‘Oh, dear.’

‘Pass me the screwdriver, yeah?’  

‘Which one’s the screwdriver again?’

‘Harry!’)

Eggsy thought himself a bit mental. Ryan and Jamal thought him mad too, spending his nights (and half his nights) looking after a man that was more than half his age. But it wasn’t like they thought; Eggsy and Harry. Harry was more than capable of looking after himself, though he could do with a trim – Eggsy had to figure out how he’d bring that up to the other man.

And yeah, Eggsy knew that this gig wasn’t a long-term thing, and Merlin had already told him to be prepared for Harry losing his shit over the stuff Eggsy was bringing into the house (and Eggsy wasn’t taking the warning lightly), and Eggsy’s suggestion that they take a walk outside the house (which Harry hadn’t even bothered responding to) but the in-between felt nice, you know? Eggsy didn’t much get nice things, and they never lasted this long anyhow. He was able to feed himself and his sister (and his mum when she cared to eat), with money leftover to save up for a someplace better for them to live. Eggsy didn’t doubt that Harry would give him a good reference, omitting their humble beginnings. But even with a thought, Eggsy didn’t want to think about the end.

The end: where Harry said he had enough of Eggsy loitering around, making changes to his house, soiling his status with his chav attitude. Eggsy had seen the whole of the house now, all four floors of wealth (albeit hidden underneath white cloths) and he knew Harry’s family was as posh as you could get. Eggsy wouldn’t fit in a crowd of those stiff collars and cultured conversation, whatever that fucking meant. Nor did Eggsy want to be involved with it, but he imagined, one day, that Harry would be able to live proper again. No longer hiding out in his house (and hiding was what the man was doing). Still, Eggsy didn’t much want to think about Harry going out to live his life, and Eggsy not being there.

So, yeah, Eggsy was going mental.

It seemed only fitting that Dean would bring back to earth.

Eggsy  

‘Where the fuck have you been?’

Dean demanded to know the second Eggsy entered the flat. He didn’t get the chance to lift his head before there was a fist to his cheek, jerking him sideways and into the wall. Eggsy hissed, more out of surprise than pain though. He could smell the alcohol wafting Dean; the man sloshed, and he didn’t often know his left from his right when he was this glazed eyed. Small mercy, Eggsy thought and just about managed to bring up a hand to block another cuff.

‘Uh, Eggsy. You think ‘cause you got a job now you can be here whenever you like, what time you like.’

‘It’s not even eight!’

‘Don’t smart-mouth, boy! You live under my roof, you follow my rules!’

‘You didn’t give a shit before!’

‘What I say about that mouth.’

‘Dean, leave off him,’ said Michelle, but she sounded more out of it than she’d been that morning. Behind Dean’s bulk, Eggsy caught a look of his mum and wished he hadn’t. She wasn’t working anymore, depending wholly on Dean (and what she’d accept from Eggsy, which wasn’t much) and she looked it. Limp hair, watery eyes, the smile of someone floating high on something that made them well-happy.

Eggsy used to think that he could make his mum happy, then he thought Daisy would save them, even as Dean took her birth to mean Michelle was his for good; but Eggsy was starting to realise that his mum was addicted. To the hard stuff. In a way that meant nothing he did would get to her; not even herself, if she didn’t want it. And she didn’t like she wanted it. Lounging and smoking a blunt, looking at Eggsy as if she were seeing double.

What did she think she was doing with the leave off him, Dean, beg off him, Dean. Eggsy didn’t want to hate his mum, but she wasn’t making any effort to see them better. It felt to Eggsy, as always, and he felt fucking exhausted.

‘Go to your room, Mugsy,’ said Dean, not bothering to beg off the nickname; not like Michelle would notice, anyway. With her useless piece said, she’d turned back to eye the ceiling and its stains. Eggsy didn’t want to hate his mum but–

Screw that, Eggsy thought. He made up his mind and it was no long-time solution, masking a feeling that he’d have to dig into later, but Eggsy didn’t just duck from Dean’s next punch, he pushed the man away. And drunk as he was, the heavy bulk of his stumbled backwards, giving Eggsy enough space to lunge for the flat door, wrench it open and flee.

‘Get back here, Mugsy!’

Daisy wasn’t in the flat; she was with Jamal’s sister again, Eggsy reminded himself, and tried to breathe better amidst the smarting of cheek and chest. It didn’t help that he parkoured his way down the estate grounds, but that was better instead of running into one of Dean’s mates.

On solid ground again, Eggsy took out his phone and rang Jamal: ‘Meet me at the pub?’ he asked. And Eggsy must sound off enough because Jamal didn’t even question the Tuesday night call for drinks; he said he’d lop in Ryan, so Eggsy didn’t have to ring him. And that, and everything else, was proof that Eggsy could have been worse off, but he wasn’t. He still had his mates.

Eggsy

‘So, what are you going to do?’ Ryan asked, having chewed a chip to all hell, now showing Eggsy the contents of his mouth, which was rank, but Eggsy didn’t much feel the disgust above everything else he was trying to numb himself from. ‘Can you even afford a place on your own?’

‘Nothing proper,’ Eggsy shrugged. ‘But I can get something.’ Harry paid him enough that he’d be able to afford somewhere good but only whilst he worked for Harry. What happened afterwards? Harry didn’t want to rely on Harry’s references, he had to be practical and the most he’d be able to afford on supermarket salary was a shared bedroom.

‘You could always move in with me?’ Jamal suggested, not for the first time.

Eggsy shook his head. ‘Your parents are already up their heads with you and your siblings. You ain’t got room for me.’

‘Eggsy–’

‘I’ll figure something out, yeah?’ Eggsy said and took another swig of his beer. ‘I always do.’ He was drinking to get drunk, and his friends hadn’t called him out for the stupidity. They didn’t pity him, but only because their lot was as bad as each other. Except, Jamal didn’t get beaten on like Eggsy and Ryan did.

‘I’d offer you my room,’ said Ryan. ‘But I reckon me dad’s worse than yours.’ Eggsy scowled at that, not about his own situation but Ryan’s. He took a closer look at him, and the fading yellow of bruises. Who knew what Ryan was hiding underneath that hoodie though? ‘What about your Sugar Daddy though? Won’t he room you?’

Eggsy glared across the table. ‘Don’t call Harry that.’

Ryan snorted.

‘That ain’t a joke, Ryan. Not around here.’

Ryan shrugged, but he did lower his voice before he added: ‘Glad you know who I’m talking about though.’

Eggsy scowled, but instead of trying to come up with a response, he took another swig of beer. His friends took pity on him at least in this though. They knew that if it wasn’t for his mum and Daisy, Eggsy would have already left Dean to his flat; that Eggsy would have knocked the bloke out flat. But Eggsy had his responsibilities to consider; giving lip would only turn Dean onto his mum, and, fuck forbid, Daisy. She was too young to really know what was going on, and maybe she won’t remember the shouting and the pain and bloodstains, but Daisy didn’t cry like a babe should, and though she did smile, it hurt for Eggsy to watch the light of her fade at any too loud noise.

Eggsy was in the shit, yeah? Harry’s money was getting him to save up, but it still wasn’t enough to get out of Dean’s thumb at the minute. And it was anyone’s guess how long Eggsy had left before Dean really felt pissed off with Eggsy’s existence and decided that he should put it to an end.

Eggsy was three drinks in, laughing at Ryan’s not-that-funny recount of some soap drama, of all things, he’d gotten hooked on, when Poodle and his lot walked into the pub. Granted, if Eggsy didn’t want to face them, he should have chosen a different pub altogether, but he had sort of hoped that Poodle would be willing to ignore him like he’d laid off him the last few weeks. No luck this time, apparently. It was as if the man came to the pub looking for Eggsy, with how their eyes not two seconds later.

‘Fuck, bruv,’ Eggsy said, slumping into the chair, as if that’d suddenly make him invisible to the approaching men. ‘Give me a fucking break.’

‘Mugsy!’ called Poodle, loud enough to disrupt a couple of blokes where they’d been eyeing the footie on the tellie. They got a look at poodle and didn’t dare tell him off for it though. ‘Heard you got a posh job and now think you’re better than us, eh?’

Jamal sighed. ‘What’s with them thinking you got a stick up your arse?’

‘Vanity, I don’t know,’ Eggsy mumbled, then stood just as Poodle got to the table. ‘We was just leaving,’ he said, before the man could spit anything else at him. That seemed to knock Poodle on the backseat, but he wasn’t the type to not rally, not taking lightly to being made a fool. Eggsy, though, really wasn’t in the mood for a fight, not when he could still fill the size of Dean’s fist at his chest.

So, before Poodle could collect his words for a rant, Eggsy sidestepped him, though still went in for a hard knock to the shoulder, before he headed for the door.

Poodle swore at him. ‘Hey, Mugsy! Not too long now before you end up right where you belong, yeah? At Dean’s feet!’

A round of jeers followed that comment, half interrupted by the close of the pub’s door. School children, the lot of them were, with their bullying tactics. A repeat and re-hash of the same thing; Eggsy not being good enough, Eggsy never getting out of the estates, Eggsy needing them more than they’d ever need him. You wouldn’t think they were a bunch of adult men, with the way they picked on someone twenty-years their junior.

His mum, in her more sober days, had said they were jealous. Eggsy had scoffed at that, but Michelle had been adamant. Dean, Rottie, the rest of them, they say Eggsy as a reflection of their past. He was the start and end of all the ways shit had gone bad for them, so it made sense that they didn’t want Eggsy to do better. Because then they’d be forced to admit that they could have done better. They were Eggsy’s future, though once upon a time Michelle had been of clear enough mind to disagree. Madly.

Shit. Eggsy missed his mum. He’d known how it was to miss someone who was dead, but he was growing to know what it meant to miss someone who was still alive.

‘Poodle’s a wanker,’ said Ryan, joining Eggsy on the curb. He still had his bag of chips, a bunch of them in his mouth. ‘With a mug like that, don’t know how he manages to pull anything.’

Jamal sighed and came to stand at Eggsy’s other side, hands in the pocket of his jacket. ‘Where to now?’ he asked, and Eggsy saw him glance right at the side of Eggsy’s face. ‘McDonalds.’

‘I have a better idea,’ Eggsy said before Ryan could launch into the tale about the trauma, he’d suffered from working at the fast-food chain. Eggsy held up his hand, from which dangled Poodle’s car keys that he’d nicked from his jacket pocket.

Ryan let out a low whistle, their heads turning to the yellow car parked to their left. Poodle got the thing a few things ago and been ranting on and mostly on about its specs and what not. As far as cars went, it wasn’t that impressive, Eggsy dealt with better in the Marines, but if something were to piss Poodle off, and maybe give him a heart attack, it’d be someone going for an unsupervised spin with the newest lady in his life. And Eggsy was filling just tipsy enough that sound sounded like a brilliant idea about now.

‘Fucking hell, Eggsy,’ said Jamal, clearly reading Eggsy’s intentions right. But when Eggsy switched on the car, he was the first to reach for the door handle.

Eggsy  

Maybe, Eggsy shouldn’t have taken the car. Maybe, he shouldn’t have driven it three beers off a clear state of mind. Maybe, he shouldn’t have driven it backwards through traffic, ignoring the coppers call for him to pull over. He definitely wouldn’t have run over the dog, not for nothing, but maybe he shouldn’t have jammed the car into the coppers own.

‘Theft and drink driving,’ said the Bobby, laying out the facts as if Eggsy didn’t know how up shit creak he’d gotten himself.

Eggsy had his arms over the top of his head, and he squeezed them over his skull, not that it did anything for his headache. He’d barely slept a wink the previous night; they didn’t make police cells all that company.

‘That’s a hell of a sentence to face down, Mr Unwin. But I can get a deal for you if you fess up to who your co-conspirators were.’

‘I ain’t no snitch,’ said Eggsy and though the copper thought worse of him, Eggsy didn’t regret his decision. Jamal and Ryan had better things than Eggsy going for them, they didn’t deserve to get mixed up in this shit. And besides that, hadn’t Eggsy, at first, gone to Harry with intentions of getting locked up? Be careful what you wish, as the saying went. Or maybe this was just divine intervention. Two plus could sort him right out… But who’d look after Daisy.

‘Are you really willing to risk you freedom in front of a crown court judge?’ asked the Bobby.

Eggsy looked up, and he didn’t much feeling anything when he took in the long lines of the man’s face. Everyone got their own problems, reasons for why they did the things they did.

‘I’d like my free phone call now.’

Eggsy

He knew Harry was going to be mad. Eggsy knew that he’d just played right into the stereotypes of his cast, and Harry would have every right to kick him to the curb. And what could Eggsy say? He made a big deal about others not giving him opportunities, and there he was, sitting in a police cell, facing years in prison for a dumb decision

Maybe, Eggsy shouldn’t have called Harry. But frankly, Eggsy didn’t have anyone else. Not anyone who could help. Harry didn’t sound either way about Eggsy’s situation bu that didn’t much help him. Being hangover, and the headache, were punishment, but Eggsy knew it’d be nothing in the face of Harry’s disappointment. Eggsy realised a little too late how much he wanted the other man to think good of him; it made it all the worse to think that he’d lost any good regard he’d built.

What did it mean, then, that Harry came to the police station himself? Harry, who’d Eggsy had mentioned once, about taking a walk at the nearest park, and hadn’t even deemed to give a reply. Now standing at the door of Eggsy’s cell, sunglasses over his eyes, a white cane in one hand, and a blond woman on the other arm. Eggsy did a double take at the woman, but that were the least of his concerns.

‘Harry?’ said Eggsy coming up to the bars. The other man didn’t say anything, though his lips pressed into a thin line. Eggsy had never seen in a suit up close, just on Google images. He filled out a lot better than he would have a couple months ago, Eggsy found himself thinking.

‘There’s a cab waiting for us,’ said the woman, once Eggsy was allowed out the cell.

Eggsy finally took another look at her. Blond hair in a high ponytail, short heels, blazer and skirt. She looked like someone who might sue him for all he was worth, even the pennies in his pocket.

‘Roxanne Morton,’ she said, extending a hand for Eggsy to shake, all formal like. If she though anything of his dress or the blooming bruises on his face, her expression didn’t say anything. But even as Eggsy shook her hand, his eyes were more habited to keep an eye on Harry, who was still had his hand wrapped over her forearm.  

‘That’s it, then?’ Eggsy asked. ‘Don’t I got to sign something?’ He’d been in enough police stations for petty crime to know that there was usually more formality to these things. But they only stopped at the front desk to collect Eggsy’s things.

Eggsy couldn’t begin to guess what Harry had done, and thought ignorance might be better. But then he thought that Harry would be disappointed that he wasn’t asking more questions and Eggsy didn’t want to disappoint the man further. That was what Harry was, Eggsy concluded. Disappointed. Harry didn’t look at him, and it didn’t matter that he couldn’t see him; Harry always turned, or tilted his head, or reacted somehow when Eggsy was talking. It was only now that Eggsy realised that he’d been looking out for those tells when in the man’s presence, that its absence made him feel less than a stranger.

It was only when they got to the cab, the Morton bird directing Harry to the door (which Eggsy didn’t feel some type of way about, he didn’t), before Harry spoke: ‘We’ll discuss this at the house.’ Eggsy still wanted to say something though. His apologies? But Harry had turned to Morton, who still stood outside the car. ‘Thank you, Miss Morton. If you could handle the other paper, I’d be most grateful.’

‘Of course, Mr Hart.’

The cab door then closed and the silent sunk its claws into the space.

Eggsy  

Eggsy was staring but he couldn’t well help it. He knew the lines of Harry’s face like he knew the back of his hand, but he had yet to see this particular expression. It was the sunglasses, he told himself, but he knew it wasn’t. Eggsy had a shake to his leg, it jostled the shared bench of their seats and Harry’s face twitched, but Eggsy’ irritability wasn’t enough to have him quit it with the silent treatment. Eggsy thought he was five minutes away from rattling out of his skin.

But then they were getting out of the townhouse. And Harry was finally directing some words at Eggsy, ‘Pay the cab driver, Eggsy,’ before opening the door and getting out onto the curb.

Eggsy’s heart leaped, and he half paid attention to the cabbie, the rest of his attention on Harry who was, with confidence, making his way to the front door of his house. Eggsy needn’t have worried too much, because he could hear the soft tones of the AI imbedded in Harry’s glasses, fed through the earpiece in his ear, directing him up the stairs. Harry still used the white cane to knock against the floors and wall, but he got to the front door and opened it without incident.

Eggsy let out a breath, but he couldn’t well be cheerful that Harry had managed this one thing without incident; the tension between them was still ripe enough to be cut messily by a blunt knife.

Harry headed for the drawing room and Eggsy only paused to push off his shoes, a habit at this point. Harry kept his on and headed straight for the bar, where after some shuffling, he poured himself a half-glass full of rum. It was the first time in a long time that Harry was drinking in front of Eggsy, and Eggsy had his own moment of disappointment, but he figured there was a place and time, and mentioning Harry’s drinking habits, for the first time, right now, didn’t seem like a bright idea.

Eggsy took his usual seat, as Harry took his usual. Then the silence persisted for another, frankly, debilitating minute.

‘You could just shout at me,’ said Eggsy, not able to take it anymore. He wasn’t one for sitting down without movement; still couldn’t help the jitter of his leg.

Harry took another sip of his drink, and quite succinctly, said, ‘A gentleman does not shout, Eggsy. One is quite capable of making their point without raising their voice.’

‘Or speaking at all, right?’ Eggsy probably shouldn’t show the man attitude, he was the one who needed to go on hands and knees and apologise. Though, Harry wouldn’t be able to properly appreciate the gesture unless Eggsy described it in detail for him. Which he would. If that was it took for Harry to not talk at time.

‘I was thinking,’ said Harry.

And Eggsy scoffed (so much for not giving attitude). ‘You finish thinking then?’

Harry took another sip of his rum and Eggsy itched to wrench it out of his hand. And drink the rum himself. But his head was already banging about and reminding him why alcohol binges were bad ideas. Eggsy pressed his palms underneath his thighs, fingers digging into the leather.

‘Inebriated, well beyond the legal limit,’ said Harry, after another minute had gone bar. ‘I once drove a mini cooper through the country lanes, far exceeding the speed limit.  I crashed into a tree.’

Eggsy couldn’t imagine Harry doing something like that. He seemed too proper and posh to do anything illegal, but Eggsy knew that Harry wouldn’t lie to him. And he knew that the man wouldn’t have shared that unless he wanted to make a point.

‘It happened once,’ said Harry. ‘But it was one too many times. Thank God I encountered no other drivers on the road. There was no one but my own blurry conscience the next morning to deal with. But imagine if my recklessness had caused the death of another.’

‘Harry…’ Eggsy trailed off. He didn’t much know what he was going to say, except Harry’s name felt like a comfort, and curse, at the moment.

‘This isn’t the first time you’ve participated in drunk driving incidences.’ The lines of Harry’s face were taught. ‘Your licence was only given back a few months ago.’

Eggsy didn’t even ask how he knew this. Merlin had told him about the file he’d built on him; a means to intimidate Eggsy, no doubt. Eggsy should have probably felt like his privacy had been violated, especially since Merlin made no secret of telling him that Harry about what the files contained. But instead, that news only made Eggsy respect Merlin further. It was good that Harry had people in his corner that were doing to do illegal things for him. And at the second, the fact that Harry knew? It only made Eggsy feel more relaxed, more comfortable, around the older man. Harry knew all he’d done, and still kept him around, wasn’t that a good thing?

Except now, Eggsy couldn’t keep his head high; he looked down, at his jittering kneecap, at his socked feet, at the soft carpet underfoot.

‘What on Earth was you thinking, Eggsy?’

‘I–’ Eggsy stopped himself. He felt like a chastened child but worse. He kept waiting for Harry to say they were done, that Eggsy shouldn’t bother to show up for work anymore. Who would cook Harry’s food? Eggsy thought. But knew Harry was more than capable of hiring someone to cook his meals. But who would make sure that he ate, that he didn’t waste away, become skin and bones once more.

Harry’s long sigh interrupted Eggsy from his spiralling thoughts. Eggsy looked up just in time to see Harry drain the rest of his drink. ‘Whatever horrid thing you’re thinking, stop,’ said Harry. Then, ‘I’m not going to fire you.’ The relief Eggsy expected didn’t come, no less because Harry then added, ‘What happened last night?’

Eggsy didn’t want to say. He didn’t want to recount his stupidity to one of the only men he’d have had a mind to try and impress. But Harry had asked, and Eggsy didn’t want to deny him anything. Not even then.

‘Well, me and my mates went to the pub for a drink–’

‘Before that,’ Harry said, making an impatient gesture with his free hand. Eggsy stared at the curve of his wrist for a moment, before he asked,

‘Before that?’

‘You said you were going home when you left here. What happened at the flat, Eggsy?’

‘What makes you think–’

‘I’ve read your file. In particular, your decorative hospital notes spanning the early years of your teen-hood before you seemingly restored your ability to not walk into every door, wall and flower pot.’

Right, Eggsy thought. The back of his neck burned, but he couldn’t quite tell whether it was embarrassment or fear. Why hadn’t he considered that Harry would have seen those notes?

‘Also, you vowels enunciate when your cheek is swollen.’

‘Fucking hell, Harry.’

‘So, again.’ The man settled his glass atop the coffee table before leaning back in the chair, leg crossed over the other, palms settled in his lap. ‘What happened at the flat, Eggsy?’

There was a softness to Harry when he was his dressing robe that Eggsy liked. He liked the wildness of Harry’s curls and beard; liked that both was peppered with grey hairs. Harry was a lived man, with many stories to tell for it, more than most considering his profession. Eggsy loved the way that Harry had seen the world, always in colour and vibrancy, even in the greys and shadows of a sketch. But he loved this too; the ability of the man to cut deep, without the need for seeing anything. If anything, it made Eggsy feel better seen.

So, he told Harry what happened. From entering the flat and Dean beating on him. To all the incidences before that. About his mum’s drinking habits, her depression when Eggsy’s dad died. And Harry didn’t ask, but Eggsy told him about why he started running Dean’s drugs. I needed money, it was the only way to get me mum and sister out of the Estates. The excuse didn’t sound right in his head anymore. Maybe, he could have found a more legitimate thing to do? If he worked harder and didn’t hold onto the grudge that the world owed him something.

It didn’t, Eggsy thought. But it had brought Harry to him. Or him to Harry, more accurately.

When Eggsy finished, his voice was hoarse, his tongue dry, but there was less of a weight on his shoulders. He hadn’t expected that. He’d never bought into the spile that talking about shit would do any good. But Harry saw a therapist every two weeks, didn’t he? Eggsy didn’t think Harry would keep going if it wasn’t doing something for him–

‘Move in,’ said Harry.

And Eggsy’s head jerked so hard backward, he heard the bones creak in protest. Even still, he didn’t think he heard Harry properly. ‘What?’

‘You are here more often than you are not, even on weekends,’ he said, even toned, as if he had not just suggested something out of left field, as far as Eggsy was concerned. ‘It would make if you just lived here. Avoid the morning commute.’

The back of Eggsy’s head buzzed with more than just a headache. He lifted his palms from underneath his arse and flattened them over his knees. ‘Harry, guv,’ Eggsy started, not even recognising the swell of his voice. ‘You ain’t got to do that–’

‘Your home environment is not safe,’ Harry said, apparently choosing to go with a more direct approach, in the end. ‘I’d rather you here, than somewhere being beaten, leaving you to make stupid and reckless choices. Move in, Eggsy.’

Eggsy should protest some more. He didn’t want to be selfish with Harry, and wasn’t it selfish to accept something like this? Sure, they’d gotten closer in the last couple of months, but they were still employer, employee. Were they friends? Eggsy would like to think they were friends…

‘I can’t leave my little sister behind,’ was what Eggsy said.

‘Then bring her with you.’

Simple. Just like that. Harry didn’t even wait for Eggsy to add anything else; he was up on his feet, heading to the bar once again. And lost in the funk of his mind, Eggsy didn’t even have his token mental protest over Harry’s return to drink.

Harry

In his forty-nine years, Harry had done far more impulsive things than invite his young employee, and his sister, to live in his house, but Merlin’s exasperated sigh might make people think otherwise. Whilst Harry angry at the boy’s stupidity, he was not angry enough to turn his back on the boy. And honestly, Harry saw no better solution, since Merlin, quite emphatically, reminded Harry that his organisation did not go around willy-nilly killing people (it only hacked government systems, procured top of the market tech, and made criminal charges disappear).

Still, ‘What of the mother?’ Merlin had asked, after his rant, and then subsequent plans to ensure that Dean Anthony Baker would leave Eggsy alone going forward.

Harry would have been willing to house her, as well. But Merlin’s file, which were rarely wrong (minus the whole Valentine issue) read her as someone descending, quite steeply, into the throes of addiction. And though Eggsy might seem the sort to chase after someone, blood being important more than anything else, the boy was also smartly practical. Michelle Unwin needed to save herself if she wanted to live; her twenty-five-year-old could not do it for it.

So, ‘Eggsy did not mention her,’ was what Harry said, but he added, ‘But you’ll keep an eye on her, won’t you?’

Merlin had huffed but Harry didn’t doubt that he’d follow through with the request.

Harry

Eggsy moved in that weekend.

Harry went to the estates with him, though chose to stay in the car. Venturing into one place of unknown for the week more than met the goals his therapist had set out for him (even if a few months later). Even whilst in the car though, Harry had enough working senses to judge that the estates were no place for a child to have grown up. With the window rolled down, though only one fifth of the way (a warning by Eggsy that Harry headed), the noise, and smell, was telling.

Harry was glad for when Eggsy showed up, if only so he can have the familiar scent of the boy nearby. The baby powder, stronger in presence, was new though.

‘Hello, Miss Daisy,’ said Harry, to where he thought she might be sat on Eggsy’s legs (they’d have to get a car seat for her. A whole plethora of things, actually).

‘She can’t yet speak,’ said Eggsy, the seat squeaking as he adjusted himself, his sister and the things he’d gone to fetch for them. The later Harry judged as not much; he’d only heard the thump of two bags. ‘But she’s smiling at you if that helps any.’

‘It does,’ said Harry, a smile of his own growing into place. He then tilted his head towards Eggsy. ‘Did everything go well?’

‘Yeah. Me stepdad weren’t in.’

‘And your mother?’

Eggsy paused for a moment, though Harry felt his leg start to bounce. Without though, Harry placed a palm atop it. Eggsy stilled, and the quiet drew on for another few seconds. Then Eggsy exhaled, just as Harry did and said, ‘She was there. Told her we were leaving but she didn’t seem to understand. Left a note for her in case she sobers enough to wonder where Daisy went.’

Not you? Was Harry’s mental question. But Eggsy spoke as little as he could where his mother was concerned and that was telling enough.

‘You know the layout of the place,’ Harry said later, when they’d entered the townhouse. ‘Pick a room that suits you and your sister.’

Still, Harry hadn’t expected Eggsy to choose the rooms nearest to the bedroom that Harry had recently returned to (having left his office lodgings after Eggsy’s not at all subtle prompts) The black box, that Eggsy had installed on the outer wall of every room, now proclaimed that Eggsy and Daisy were residents of the townhouse and Harry could never have imagined how pleased it would make him to press that button and hear that. He adjusted to the feeling far quicker that one might have thought, as well. Who would have thought that isolation could be just that? Isolating.

 Eggsy, and Daisy, slid into the framework of the house, quite easily, as if they’d always been there. On Sunday morning, Harry woke to the smell of breakfast far earlier than he had come to expect. When he entered the kitchen, it was to the bacon and eggs, and Daisy’s giggles. Harry paused on the threshold, not wanting to disturb Peppa pig and Eggsy poor rendition of the theme tune. But then just as he thought the thought, Eggsy swore–

‘Oink– Fuck! Harry!’

‘Should you not mind your language in front of the child?’ Harry asked, as he wandered into the kitchen. He paused when the toe of his slipper stubbed into a chair, which wasn’t usually there and often, Eggsy was careful to keep things as Harry would expect them.

‘Sorry, sorry. I don’t got a high chair for Dais so I had to fashion something up.’ Harry could feel him hovering, disturbing the air. ‘Should I–’

‘Some guidance would be appreciated. Thank you.’

As per usual, Eggsy’s touch was warm upon Harry’s arm. Quite gently, Harry was led to his usual seat at the table, Eggsy taking in the chair once he was sat. ‘Bacon and eggs, yeah?’

‘Coffee too, if you please.’

‘No, tea?’ Eggsy sounded far chirper than he had the night before, having been sombre in a way that Harry had not yet heard him. Harry preferred this version.

‘Thought I might try to broaden my horizons.’ Eggsy snorted, then Harry heard the detritus and plates and cutlery being gathered. He turned his head then, towards Daisy who was mumbling in gibberish at her TV show. ‘Good morning, Miss Daisy,’ said Harry and he did not expect a response of any sort, bis mood did lift when she laughed. It could well have just been directed at her show, but since Harry could not tell otherwise, he preferred to think it directed at himself instead.

‘Breakfast served, Mr Hart,’ said Eggsy, the clink of the plate settling in front of Harry.

‘Mt first name is fine,’ said Harry and made to feel out the table for the cutlery, except he was interrupted by Eggsy placing both knife and fork in hand.

‘Too formal?’ he asked, then Harry felt the warmth of his palm on his shoulder. Harry thought it lingered, but that could well be the effects of the early morning take awhile more to leave him.

‘Shall I go back to calling you, Mr Unwin?’

‘Harry it is!’

Breakfast was a pleasant affair, as it usually is, though it was even more special with the babble of Daisy in-between. Harry tried to inform her of job responsibilities of a lepidopterist, but he thought she was far more interested in the quests of Peppa Pig, which Harry had to eventually concede sounded more entertaining. Something about those words made Eggsy laugh, though and Harry did not quite know why but he left the boy to his devices.

Harry did offer to help with the dishes though, and now that he thought about it, it was quite rude to not have offered before. Of course, Eggsy tried to urge him away (‘You are paying me for this, Harry.’

‘If I help, we might finish quicker. Now come, your protests are wasting time.’)

A plate fell, and broke, when Harry misjudged where the draining tray was. But it made Daisy laugh, so Harry didn’t fall into his ordinarily droop when he realised, he was not quite as capable of doing the same things as he had before. It had been quite the state of things for a while now, and he was only now properly acknowledging that he was more than ready to do tasks he’d been stubborn against. One could suppose it all the influence of Eggsy, and they would be quite right… The boy had a way of making Harry want to do better.

But Harry knew that the responsibility for his actions and stubbornness had no business being on Eggsy’s shoulders, the boy had enough to contend with on his own. So, Harry (begrudgingly) used the apparatus’ installed throughout the house. It took some getting used to for the glasses on his face, but he could admit that he felt better about freshening up and dressing himself, especially when there were less bumps and bruises to contend with.

Another day, another suit. Highly impractical for a Sunday; Harry had no plans on leaving the townhouse. But he had not worn a suit in so long, not even to his therapists. It still did not fit his frame quite right yet, he hadn’t filled out in all the places he used to be yet, but Harry admired the long lines and soft fabric, his hands taking a journey over the state of him. He’d chosen the lease formal suit, without a tie, so he wouldn’t seem too quite out of place, not quite unlike a man expecting familiar guests in the afternoon.

When Harry entered the drawing room, Eggsy immediately silenced himself, though Daisy continued her giggles. Harry was just about to ask what was wrong when Eggsy said, ‘You got a lot of suits tucked away in that wardrobe of yours?’ His voice sounded off, not quite like himself, but then he was clearing his throat and saying. ‘Got somewhere to be today.’

‘Perhaps the garden,’ suggested Harry. ‘The weather forecast said it would not be too warm.’

‘How about a barbeque?’

‘I do not think I have the right equipment in the shed.’

‘I could pop into the store for a bit?’

‘If you like.’

‘I need to get some stuff for Dais anyway. That highchair for one.’

‘Alright,’ said Harry and he settled into his usual armchair. He was about to search for his tablet, when he felt it nudge against his hands. Eggsy. ‘Thank you.’

‘Do you want anything from the shops?’

‘I am quite alright, Eggsy.’

‘Cool, cool.’

Harry listened to him potter around for a bit, just about listless enough that Harry could judge that he wasn’t doing anything practical, merely trying to busy himself. Harry gave it a few seconds more, listening to the drawl of the news but then when he heard the swish of a feather duster, he sat back in his chair.

‘Eggsy? What are you doing?’

‘Oh, uh. It’s a bit dusty in here. I thought I might freshen up the place a bit.’

The drawing room smelt just fine to Harry, but as with these things, Eggsy’s judgement was better, as he could actually see. Harry left him to it, then, though not even five minutes letter, completely switched off his tablet when he heard the vacuum turn on the corridor.

‘Your brother is quite idiotic despite his smarts,’ said Harry, directing his words to where he thought Daisy might be. Eggsy had placed her close enough that Harry could smell baby powder. As expected, Daisy’s response was some more babbles, and Harry sighed. Though, not at the child, but at her brother. Harry waited until he thought Eggsy was at the doorway before he shouted,

‘Eggsy!’

‘Fuck!’ There was the clatter of things falling and stumbling (Eggsy’s head into the wall, considering the echo) before the hurried pad of footsteps fell onto the carpet of the drawing room, Eggsy coming closer. ‘Harry? Are you okay?’

‘I, perhaps, should have been clearer. My fault, entirely. But you are not obliged to, as the saying goes, earn your keep, Eggsy.’

‘Huh?’

Harry huffed his exasperation, but even then, he recognised that he was becoming quite fond of this boy. ‘This is now your home, Eggsy. And there is a Housekeeper. Martha already complains that you’re doing her job, there’s no need to also vacuum the corridors.’

‘Well, she’s coming by next week, so I thought I just might–’

‘You are paid to cook for me, Eggsy. And if you do not want to do that anymore, that is fine–’

‘No, I want to!’ he said but did not say anything else for a bit. Harry rather thought he might have to be even boulder with establishing expectations, then Eggsy said, ‘Shouldn’t I at least pay rent though?’

‘Nonsense,’ said Harry, perhaps more vehemently than was necessary. He forced a measure of evenness into his voice. ‘You are here because you and your sister need a safe place to stay. You will not be using the money I give for anything other than ensuring the two of you are comfortable.’ Eggsy was quite, which was unlike him. Harry hesitated for a moment, but then thought to be honest, so added, ‘And I do want you are here. You are a welcome companion. Including your sister.’

‘Companion?’ asked Eggsy after a bit. Harry might have panicked at the neutral tone, if it was not swiftly followed by amusement: ‘Are we friends, Harry?’

‘I would like to think so.’

‘Best friends?’

‘Merlin might take issue with that.’

Eggsy laughed, and it was a wonderful thing. Always a painter, Harry imagined a burst of yellow pain, splattered with orange and green. Eggsy had said that his eyes were green. Harry wondered what shade, evergreen like a forest? Or full, like the depths of a moss ridden river? He’d never be able to properly know, not even with a description, but for once, Harry was not too forlorn over the fact. He could find comfort in his imagination, and even then, he was beginning to realise that he did not need the colour of someone to know how colourful they were.

‘I’m still going to finish the vacuuming though. I’ve already started it!’

‘Very well, Eggsy,’ Harry sighed, but it was just as soon replaced with a smile.

Eggsy  

Eggsy couldn’t well remember the last time he did a proper barbeque, but Daisy loved her bit of mashed food (she loved anything he gave her, so that wasn’t exactly high praise) but Harry had finer sensibilities and didn’t complain. In fact, he gave Eggsy a compliment! And Eggsy tried to not be well chuffed by that, but fuck it, it wasn’t like Harry could see the megawatt state of his smile.

‘Why are you smiling like that?’

‘I ain’t smiling!’

‘I can hear it in your voice, Eggsy.’

Eggsy liked it when Harry did that. He also liked the way Harry ate all posh like, even if had to use his hands, because this was a burger, not some fucking French cuisine. It took all of Eggsy’s self-preservation, and then some, to not reach over and wipe away the smudge of ketchup in Harry’s beard. He told himself that he should keep to boundaries, even if Harry had nothing to state where they were. It was implied, wasn’t it? Except that Eggsy had already faulted with the whole vacuuming thing.

He didn’t want to push Harry too much but he Eggsy also wasn’t a coward. He was self-aware enough to know when he was pressing for something, even if he didn’t yet give it a name. He told Harry that he and Daisy were going for a walk of the park, and Harry tilted his head in his usual mark that he’d heard the words, but he didn’t otherwise turn towards Eggsy. So, Eggsy asked, ‘Do you want to come with?’

Eggsy flat out expected a no, but he should have been prepared for a yes. He should have been prepared for the sunlight on Harry’s hair, the sweat knitting his brows and the tight grip he kept to Eggsy’s arm as they navigated the park. Eggsy didn’t think the grip was really needed; Harry had his cane and his glasses, the latter quite impressive by technology standards (Merlin had been well-proud of himself for that), but Eggsy wasn’t about to complain about having the cool body of one Harry Hart pressed against him.

‘Am I getting in the way?’ Harry asked, after Daisy had waved her fist one too many times near his face. Harry had quick reflexes though, even if he couldn’t see the approaching hand.

‘Nah. She’s just excited. She don’t get to out like this often.’ Eggsy leaned forward to peer down at Daisy’s face. She was oiled down with sun lotion, but her cheeks were still pink; Eggsy pressed the back of his hand to her skin to cheek that she wasn’t overheating, but she seemed alright. She even let out a squeal when they came across a dog and their owner. ‘Did you ever think of getting another dog, Harry?’ Eggsy asked.

‘Yes. But I can’t well do so now.’

‘Why not?’ The man didn’t answer and Eggsy looked over at him. A neutral expression to some, but Eggsy saw it for what it was. Guarded. He was careful when he said, ‘There are guide dogs, you know. Ones to help with, you know,’ Eggsy finished lamely.

‘Is this another plot that Merlin has you executing?’

Eggsy watched his face, trying to judge whether there was any offence, but Harry must know what he’s looking for, since pink lips raised, imperceptible to anyone not as close as Eggsy was. ‘Nah. This is all me. I always fancied myself getting a dog. A pug.’

 Harry laughed.

‘Why’s that funny?’ Eggsy asked, even as his own smile stuck into place. Another thing he liked about Harry; the burst of his laugh, the lines along his mouth to go along with it. Eggsy wanted to press his fingers against them and thanked the universe that they were already occupied elsewhere.

‘I did not think you a pug-sort of man. That is all.’

‘What sort of dog man, am I, then?’ Harry’s smile only widened. ‘Oh, come on. You don’t seem much like a terrier man either.’

‘A Doberman,’ said Harry. And Eggsy gaped at him, but then said,

 ‘Fair. Bit too big for the flat though. Or London in general.’

‘What sort of dog do you think I am?’

Eggsy tried to consider it, looking at Harry more closely, which was just an excuse to look at Harry more closely. Somehow, the man must feel his gaze; his head tilts.  Eggsy felt a rush of warmth enter his stomach then, having nothing to do with the summer warmth. He let it pool for a bit longer, bathing in before he put a stopper atop it, ‘Nah. I change my mind. A terrier suits you just fine.’

Harry’s eyebrows rose above his glasses, which was the start and end of his incredulity, but he did not argue Eggsy’s point. And if Eggsy plastered himself that bit closer to Harry, close enough to draw an uncomfortable sweat between their bodies, Harry didn’t say a word about it.

Eggsy  

The previous night had gone well enough, Daisy tuckered out from the travel and the new environment, but she screamed bloody murder at Eggsy when he tried to place her within the small caught, he’d gotten from Argos. He didn’t know how long he spent trying to bring her down, but it must be long enough because he eventually heard the tell-tale shuffle of Harry’s slippered feet as he entered the room.

Eggsy was tired, but not so exhausted to not take in the full sight of Harry Hart in his pyjamas. Not yet ruffled by sleep (which Eggsy had seen a few times when the commute hadn’t been disastrous). It was a new look, prim and proper but comfortable. Eggsy liked it.

 ‘I thought she might like this?’ Harry said, holding up one of Daisy’s new bottles. Clearly, Harry had just made one. Eggsy hadn’t thought he would have; Daisy wasn’t the other man’s responsibility. But he’d still labelled the jars with the brail stickers. That warmth returned to Eggsy as Harry drew closer into the room. He had his cane in hand, using it to navigate the floors, which could have been cleaner of toys, but Eggsy hadn’t yet got round to that. Even as Harry moved, Eggsy heard the soft tone of the AI coming from Harry’s ear.

 ‘Thank you,’ Eggsy said, and it was unnecessary for his hand to brush along Harry’s, but he did it anyway. Harry didn’t otherwise react anyway.

Daisy still fought him, but she must have been hungrier that she even thought, since she eventually latched onto the bottle’s nipple and sucked hard. And Eggsy sighed with no small amount of relief. He heard Harry settle on the bed beside him, but he didn’t yet turn towards the man, his attention on his little sister and her blinking eyes; she was already drooping, her small hands growing lax where they curled around Eggsy’s.

You’re very good with her,’ Harry said into the quiet, his tone matching the mood.

‘Well, yeah, got to be. Mum don’t care.’

‘I meant the compliment as just a measure of your being, Eggsy. You’re a loyal and dedicated man to those you care about.’

‘Well,’ Eggsy started, but trailed ended up trailing off. Daisy wasn’t sucking anymore, and Eggsy gently pried the bottle from her mouth. She pursed her lips, her eyelids flickering but she didn’t wake. Eggsy was almost sorry for what he did next, which was place over his shoulder and pat her pat her back, so he could get her to burp. Daisy, obviously, protested this, but with a few burps down, Eggsy figured she was good enough now for that kip he’d been trying to get her to settle down into.

Eggsy loitered over her cot a few minutes though, just staring. He brushed the blond locks of her hair back, his fingers lingering at her soft cheek. It was only when Harry got to his feet that Eggsy forced himself to look away. He met Harry in the corridor, shutting the door gently behind him, the baby monitor settled in the bottom of his trackies. Eggsy misjudged where Harry was stood there, as when he turned around, the man was far closer than he’d expected.

Harry must feel their closeness, the inferno that was usually the temperature of Eggsy’s skin, beyond uncomfortable during a heatwave, but he didn’t move away. For a beat. Then, another. When he eventually did, Eggsy still didn’t properly exhale. He saw that Harry didn’t do the same either. But either pointed out the moment, and it faded into the background of the night.

Without prior though, they both made their way to the drawing room.

              An old tune played from Harry’s record player, the man himself tucked into his armchair, his head tipped back, his eyes closed. Eggsy pushed himself into the corner of the settee, his feet drawn onto the seat with him. He stared at Harry.

‘Do I have something on my face?’ Harry asked after the next scritch in the record before the next song started.

Eggsy blinked his bleary eyes, though he didn’t yet want to sleep. ‘What?’

‘You’re staring.’

'How do you know?’    

‘Your tone just now.’    

Eggsy snorted. He dug his fingers into the arm of the settee and thought about making some tea for the both of them, since it had worked quite well for Daisy. What he ended up doing instead was say, ‘Dean might ask about for Daisy. He might come looking for her–’

‘He won’t,’ said Harry. In such a final tone that Eggsy immediately knew not to doubt him. Not to doubt, Merlin, more accurately. Harry was a painter, that was his life, and Eggsy understood why he’d struggled to live on without things being how they used to be… Merlin, on the other hand, Eggsy was unsure of.

‘What does Merlin actually do?’ he asked.

‘He owns a security company,’ said Harry. A plausible answer, if not for the fact that Eggsy didn’t have a criminal record, his licence intact, after his latest bout of stupidity. Harry didn’t feel inclined to explain though, and Eggsy realised that it didn’t really matter. All that mattered was his baby sister was safe, and he trusted Harry when he said Dean wouldn’t be a problem.

The matter of his mum still stuck to him like an itch though, his last image of her striking him in the gut with thoughts of what if that’s the last I saw her? And she didn’t even recognise who he was. Eggsy wanted her back, but he was old enough to know that just because he wanted something, someone, that didn’t mean he’d get them.

Quite like habit, Eggsy’s gaze flickered back to Harry. Harry was long lines and wrinkled lines, weathered and loose skin, his age in all the imperfections. But even whilst logic gave them that title, Eggsy did not think them so. Wise lines, Eggsy thought, and that warmth enveloped him once more.

It should scare him, this easy feeling, no less because of the homophobic shit he’d had to deal with whilst living with Dean. But thinking the world of Harry was just that: easy. Eggsy could not help but admire the other man, and if that made another feeling well up inside of him, feelings that by the direction of some in society, said should be directed towards birds… that it was what it was. Eggsy could hoard his feeling, let it smother him in bubble wrap. That was all it’d ever be, anyway. He did not dare entertain the idea that Harry might like… share similar sentiments (fuck, Eggsy nearly gagged at the posh speak).

‘What are you laughing about?’ Harry asked, already with a smile on his face.

‘Just thought something in the way you would.’

‘And that’s funny, is it?’

‘You talk funny, Harry.’

‘I could say the same about you, Eggsy,’ he said, then added, ‘Don’t change. I like it.’

Another throb of that warmth… Maybe, there were similar sentiments going around?

Off to the bed they went soon after then, not needing the tea. Eggsy knew he was hovering, then lingering, but Harry only smiled, indulgent in a way that Eggsy hadn’t really thought about but now realised was fondness coming from the man. It made his own grin widen, and he reminded himself that he was no coward.

So, when Harry made to enter his bedroom, Eggsy took a chance. The brush of a hand against another, lingering, then pressing. Eggsy paused, waiting, and when Harry didn’t move away, he curled his hand closer. Fingers pressed into one other, an electric jolt of warmth that made Eggsy gasp, but just as soon sighed when fingers slotted together. It didn’t last long, this gentle touch; no sooner had the feeling of rightness settled over Eggsy, that Harry was drawing away. Eggsy near leaped for him, but just about caught the pinch to Harry’s face. There and gone the next second, but Eggsy did see it. He let Harry go.

‘Goodnight, Eggsy,’ Harry said, still soft of voice though.

‘Night, Harry,’ Eggsy echoed, but maybe he didn’t sound as light-hearted as he’d tried to be.

Chapter Text

Eggsy  

‘Did Harry never say nothing about wanting kids?’

‘Should that not be a question you ask Harry?’

Roxanne Morton, A.K.A, Roxy, the platonic love of Eggsy’s life (well-fit, according to Ryan, but Ryan was a pleb and didn’t appreciate intelligence the way Eggsy and Jamal did) would like Eggsy to fuck off. She’d told him so to, albeit in that polite speak Harry was well-known for.

Your absence is required, she’d said, and shame for Eggsy, it’d taken him a few seconds to make sense of that bit of English. Then, instead of leaving her be, he’d laughed in her face. Not the best way to get his awards, but Roxy wasn’t like any other bird he’d met before. For one, she was completely immune to Eggsy’s charm and had the, frankly terrifying, ability to read him like a book.

(‘You’re in love with him,’ she’d said after that first dinner. Asking her to escort him to the police station had apparently reminded Harry that she was his hired assistant, and he had loped her into selling off the rest of paintings. Merlind didn’t seem pleased by that, but at least Harry was interacting with someone other than his usual five.

Now, with reference to Roxy’s statement, Eggsy had tried for bluffing. He hadn’t been staring at Harry (much) and he hadn’t been looking for any proper or unnecessary excuse to be close to him, thank you very much. But Roxy’s flat stare had had Eggsy breaking out in such a cold sweat, and so fast at that, he fancied himself that he’d be love with her, if he weren’t already in his feelings with well, someone else.

‘It ain’t love,’ Eggsy had corrected though. But whilst Roxy hadn’t commented on that, her expression haunted his dreams for days).

‘He’s really good with Daisy,’ Eggsy said now, and pulled closer one of the paintings that Roxy had deemed worthy of being sold. It wasn’t finished, like most of the ones in the room, but it was easier to read than some of the others. A room, with only a chair and hardwood flooring; simple enough, if it weren’t for the insects crawling on the ceiling. Harry had a thing for bugs, obviously. ‘I mean, he ain’t got to deal with her; she’s my responsibility. And yeah, he might have been careful ‘cause he couldn’t see what she what she was doing but he don’t avoid her. Gets her ready in the morning–’

Whilst Eggsy’s making breakfast.

‘Plays with her–’

Whilst Eggsy gets their laundry sorted (another job he’s stolen from the housekeeper but Harry’s stopped nagging on Eggsy about what he should and shouldn’t do to earn his keep. And too right, that. Eggsy’s never thought of himself as the domestic type, but he was doing all those things because he wanted to. And because it made Harry’s smile grow soppy with a fondness that Eggsy was beginning to love seeing on the older man’s face.

‘And Daisy’s outright falling in love with him, you know?’

‘Quite like her older brother.’

Eggsy huffed, not caught out by her frankness like the first time.

‘It’s very easy to love someone like Harry Hart,’ Roxy went on, and Eggsy’s head jerked up, something slanted in her tone putting him on the alert. Roxy didn’t look at him, focused as she were on checking over the paintings, and making notes about whatever she found her tablet. Her expression was focused, but Eggsy could tell that she wasn’t really doing the diligence she’d accused him of interrupting.

‘When you’d start working for him then?’ Eggsy asked. He didn’t actually think that Roxy would answer, she seemed the kind to hug stuff close to her chest, especially where strangers were concerned (though, after their last dinner and the spectacular roast Eggsy had made, that he knew made her love him, just a little bit, he’d be offended, if she said they weren’t tentative friends, at best).

‘A couple years ago,’ Roxy said though, on a sigh that took Eggsy a couple of seconds to realise was like, proper wistful. ‘Straight of university, actually. I’d have blamed nepotism, except Mr Hart had immediately ruined me of that notion.’

‘Harry’s good like that. Making sure you not thinking stupid things.’

Roxy snorted and smiled. Eggsy might have been jealous if it weren’t for the fact that she was correct: It’s very easy to love someone like Harry Hart. Eggsy knew that Harry considered himself half a man now, lost without the sense that made him the painter he was, but Eggsy thought the man still full of life, and colour. The bloke took in a chav like Eggsy and had him do a one-eighty, made him want to change his life around. Frankly, Harry Hart was magical.

‘You’re grinning like a loon again,’ was Roxy’s dry tone, then Eggsy felt a handkerchief smack into his face. ‘Quick. Dry the drool before Harry see’s you.’

Eggsy huffed and raised his middle finger at her. Roxy just laughed, before she said, in a much more serious tone.

‘Anything I feel for Harry Hart is professional in all regards. I admire him,’ she said, giving Eggsy a very pointed stare, that he felt in his toes. ‘That is all.’

Eggsy nodded. He’d only recently (as barely a month ago) come to terms with the fact that he was bent in shape, he hadn’t even told Ryan and Jamal anything yet, but it was good that he didn’t have to like, fight someone for Harry. Not that he wouldn’t, but next to Roxy, Eggsy didn’t think he stood a chance.

‘You paint, then,’ he asked a bit later. With the air cleared, though not from Eggsy’s love for Roxy (that was still going strong, stronger still with her declaration), Eggsy returned to being unhelpful. He was holding up another painting, this one he couldn’t make heads or tail of though. There were reds and pink, bursting from the centre, like a grapefruit squeezed to bursting.

‘No. I do not,’ said Roxy, and Eggsy heard her footsteps before the painting was pulled from his grip. ‘I studied business.’

‘Why’d you end up the assistant for a painter then?’

Roxy eyed the painting, with that critical look that made her look like a proper professional. Eggsy had heard her debate or technique and use of colour over the phone, so he knew she knew her stuff. ‘Harry is inspiring.’

‘What’s that then?’

‘And organism,’ Roxy deadpanned, and for a second, Eggsy thought she was joking. But she raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to laugh.

‘Very inspiring,’ Eggsy instead choked out, and Roxy’s lips quirked, before she turned on her heel, taking the painting with her.

‘Come now, Eggsy. If you’re intent on bothering me, come help me box these paintings up.’

Eggsy didn’t see why he couldn’t. He still had an hour or so before he started the prep for lunch, and he could hear Daisy’s laughter from all the way here, so he knew Harry was keeping her entertained. Still, in between helping Roxy, if Eggsy popped over to the drawing room and took a couple of videos and photos of the two (Harry laid out on his back, in another suit, though with the tie at least missing, and Daisy crawling over him, slobbering up his face), then Roxy was the only one to roll her eyes at him; Harry was too distracted, and frankly, besotted by Miss Diasy Unwin to notice.

Harry

As was the general expectation life, with the good, came the bad. Harry’s younger years, whilst they had mellowed from the excess of his early youth, had still been filled with surplus.

Harry liked the crowds, and the attention, he liked a good drink (hence his habit of reaching for a liquor bottle at even the most minor of inconveniences), and he was incredibly vain where his looks were concerned. For all his talent, which he never had a problem with boasting about, he did not consider himself a pleasant man to be around.

In public, yes, he could be life and the universe, itself. In private, however, he rather became a ghoul that did not much care for paintbrush, nor paint, and would do anything to sleep beside a bottle of rum.

Losing his sight had made the public element disappear (though not for a lack of trying on Merlin’s part). Apart from Harry’s darker side being free to indulge in self-flagellation, it was easier and safer, for Harry to be ensconced in darkness within a place that was, at the least, familiar. Within the walls of his house, there would be no one to come up on him without his notice and shoot him in the face, except, Eggsy had broken down that fear with his burglary act.

Imani had worked diligently to make Harry aware that he was not half a man without one sense, no matter what he would like to convince himself of. There were things to be learned, other people’s stories to live by, but none of it ever sunk in until Eggsy came to his front door, admitting to his crime and expecting…

Punishment, Harry supposed. Except that Harry would not be judge, jury and executioner for someone else; he was exhausted enough being just that for himself.

Harry did not think himself a good man. He hired Eggsy for selfish reasons; to preserve some part of his morality, a man lost on everything else but not on the instinctive nature to help another in need. Eggsy might be angry that Harry had thought himself saviour once, and Harry would not begrudge the boy that. Harry was not a good man.

And it was because he wasn’t a good man, he could listen to Eggsy (rattle on about football, or his outing with Jamal and Ryan to some pub, or about some new recipe he was trying, or about Daisy’s first word; “doggie” of all things) and want him.

It was strange, falling the presence of the person first, without the vision to aid feeling, but it felt almost as if Harry were falling deeper, because of it. Harry knew that Eggsy was young (far too young for him, by society standards) but he only knew this because of Eggsy’s lightness of foot, the breeze and ease of his laughter, the slump of his spirit in the mornings (because he wasn’t a morning person), the persistence of his mind when it came to fishing Harry’s medicine and having him down it without complaint.

This was new; the constancy of Eggsy’s presence, and yet Eggsy fit himself around Harry, in existence, if not physical weight, and Harry found himself searching when Eggsy stepped out for even a bit. Harry wanted the boy, and the realisation was not a gust of wind, but a soft exhale.

Their fingers touched, their shoulders brushed, Daisy slobbered kisses against Harry’s cheek, Eggsy laughed brightly (he was yellow and yellow and yellow) and Harry wanted him.

But as was the general expectation life, with the good, came the bad.

Harry

Harry thought this was punishment for having stepped away from Eggsy that night, instead of pulling the other boy into his room, as if he’d actually wanted.

‘Go away!’ Harry said, not needing the man to speak to know who it was. His glasses was connected to the camera on the front door, and Eggsy, the mannerless boy, wouldn’t have knocked before entering Harry’s bedroom.

‘You wouldn’t be saying this if I was Eggsy,’ said Merlin.

‘The boy is far more tolerable than you are.’

Merlin tsked but Harry heard his approach. ‘Over twenty years of friendship you have relegated me to this. A nuisance. I have been replaced by a boy. For shame, Hart. For shame.’

Harry just groaned and would have tried to smother himself with his pillow, except to move, was to ache (and he would not leave Eggsy to find his cold corpse; he was not his father). ‘Why have you come here?’ Harry asked, because speaking at least did not cause him too much pain.

‘You haven’t had a headache like this in quite some time,’ Merlin commented, just as the bed decompressed with his weight. ‘What brought it on?’  

‘I was shot in the face,’ was Harry’s deadpan response. But Merlind did not laugh, and Harry sighed. Two years later, and they were still not at the point where they could laugh at Harry’s fortune. Granted, Harry had been intent on making a wreck out of himself, which had only made it easier to Merlin to find fault within himself. Harry knew it be a long journey ahead to convincing the man otherwise, but he was too under the weather to think of plans at the moment.

‘Why are you here?’ Harry asked.

‘The Exhibit is next week,’ Merlin said after a pause. For a moment, Harry considered feigning ignorance, but Merlin was one step ahead. ‘I know Roxy mentioned it to you yesterday.’

‘Good. If you’ve spoken to her, then you already know my answer.’

‘Harry–’

‘I am not ready,’ Harry admitted. Before it was plain stubbornness, then the itch to hurt himself, as if he hadn’t already been hurt enough. Now, Harry just knew he wasn’t ready. To face what he could not see, and all the people who’d always thought him larger than life, able to bounce back from anything. His private life was seeping into his public one; Harry Hart was human, like everyone else, and wasn’t that a sad thing?

(Except, Eggsy didn’t make feeling human like a bad thing.)

Merlin was quiet for a long moment, and Harry thought he was just thinking over how he might approach the topic from a different angle, which Harry really was not in the fucking mood for (he’d have to talk to Eggsy about who was allowed in the house when he wasn’t in proper body to reject them himself), but then Merlin said, ‘I adopted a cat.’

‘What?’

‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? Her name’s Miss Shirley.’

‘You’re allergic to cats, Merlin.’

‘Only faintly. And she hates me anyway, so she’s the perfect companion really.’

Harry almost asked, are you lonely. Harry had been sleepwalking through it for the last two years, so he knew what it felt like, at least. But Merlin’s always been used to his own company, having employees but little in the way of friends. Harry knew he sometimes had lunch with Miss Morton, and James showed up at his house, in the same way he just showed up at Harry’s (and tried to poach Eggsy from him, the wanker), but other than that, Harry did not think Merlin had company. Was this a midlife crisis then? A cat to match Harry hiring a man twenty-years his younger, off the street, as it were, only to fall in love with him–

Oh.

Oh.

‘Are you alright?’

‘The painkillers might be wearing out,’ choked Harry.

‘Should I get your bag–’

‘No need. Eggsy has a timetable set up. I’ll have them at lunch.’ Harry forced himself to breathe easy through his exhale over the boy’s name. He was a grown man for fuck’s sake. Still, Harry pressed a palm into his forehead and groaned. He wasn’t entirely surprised by his feeling, but if his sentiments could slow down, that would be appreciated. It was one thing to like the boy, another entirely to foster him with the depth of a feeling he was probably equating to Harry bettering his life, even if Eggsy would hate Harry’s rationalisations.

‘Why haven’t I been invited for lunch yet?’ Merlin asked.

And Harry huffed, massaging his forehead. ‘Because I don’t like you.’

‘I’ll ask Eggsy,’ Merlin said, as if Harry hadn’t spoken.

Again, Harry huffed, but let it rest. Aside from Merlin’s presence providing a distraction (Eggsy would be on his best behaviour and not cling to Harry – though fuck it, Harry liked it when he was clingy), it might do both him and Merlin some good to spend time with each other outside of the context of work and meetings about the tech that could be used to help Harry mimic the ability to see.

The last time they’d really gone out was the Opera show a couple months ago, and that had been a disaster more than anything else. Harry would ask Merlin about his allotment, and whether the pumpkins would be any bigger than a tennis ball this year. Harry’s headache might fade away just out of the sheer incredulity that Merlin had a passion for gardening, out of all things!

Harry

Merlin’s ankle kicked into Harry’s when he accepted the glass of fruit juice but Harry was intent on ignoring his friend, and listening as intently as he could to Daisy’s babbles. After lunch though, Merlin still found a way to bring up the obvious, in that he just blurted it out:

‘Have you quit drinking?’

‘Of course not,’ Harry snapped, with far more fever than was necessary. He winced at the lance of pain in his skull (the painkillers weren’t setting in yet), but also because of the crack of a plate against the kitchen counter, as Eggsy dropped it. Eggsy didn’t usually drop the dishes.

‘I’ve reduced the habit,’ amended Harry. In truth, he had not had a drink since the night he’d brought Eggsy home from the police station, but Harry wasn’t going to mention that. Whilst he couldn’t see Merlin’s face, he’d known the man long enough to judge what his facial expression would be twisted up into.

‘I’ve been trying to get you to quit that habit for years.’

‘It is uncouth to be jealous of a twenty-five-year-old boy, Merlin.’

‘Yes. A twenty-five-year-old boy, Harry.’

Harry glared at him, as much as his headache would allow. But if Harry knew Merlin, then Merlin knew Harry, no words necessary for exchange. Still, Harry could do without the judgement, thanks. It wasn’t like he went looking for the boy.

‘Goodbye, Merlin.’

Harry

Later that evening, just on the brink of sleep, Harry hears his bedroom door click open. Eggsy.

‘Hey? Are you already asleep? I brought you some tea.’

‘No,’ said Harry, and he felt his lashes brush the tops of his cheeks, as if he were trying to blink the sleep from his gaze.

‘Do you have control over that?’ Eggsy asked.

And ‘Just on reflex,’ Harry said, not needing an explanation for what the boy meant. He pushed himself up to a seated position when he felt the bed weigh down with Eggsy’s weight. A moment later, he felt the press of the bed table over him, the scent of tea strong. Honey and lemon. Eggsy had perfected the art of making Harry a perfect cup of tea. It was no wonder he was fond of the boy (and falling deeper for him still).

It was quiet for a bit, Harry sipping at his tea and Eggsy breathing. Harry supposed Eggsy was watching him, but he didn’t mind. If Eggsy were a painter and Harry his muse, Harry would have no problem sitting still for hours.

‘Feeling better?’ Eggsy asked.

‘Mhm.’ Harry took a another long sip of the tea and said with a smile, ‘This helps too.’

‘Glad to be of service, Guv’nor.’

Harry would roll his eyeballs if he had better control of them; he settled for poking his toe against Eggsy’s side. He didn’t expect the boy to pull his foot into his lap, but well, Harry didn’t complain either.

‘Is Daisy still asleep?’ He asked, interested, as much as the question was a distraction from the way Eggsy’s palm held his foot; not doing anything, just holding it.

‘Yep. Didn’t wake any even after I took her off you.’

‘I can’t see that how my chest could have been the most comfortable place to sleep.’

Eggsy made a noise then, which Harry didn’t quite understand until Eggsy mumbled, not quite under his breath as he’d probably thought, ‘I think I’d beg to differ.’

Well, then.

‘She enjoyed the park?’ Harry asked, and thought he managed his tone pretty well considering the fact that Eggsy had chosen just then to put Harry’s other foot in his lap. ‘Did she pick any flowers?’

‘A few Daises; no surprise there. We started to string them together, like a little crown of flowers. For you, actually.’ Harry’s lips quirked at that. He didn’t always go to the park with the siblings, but he was usually brought a token of sort. Not this time though, and he’d been too distracted by Merlin to notice. ‘Daisy got the idea of trying to eat it though, before I could pack it up.’

Harry laughed, quickly followed onwards by Eggsy’s own chuckles. The boy then told him about some other things they saw in the park; a couple birds, some ducks Daisy spent a good few minutes mimicking the squeaks of. Harry listened intently, his tea mug going cold between his fingers; he never wanted Eggsy to feel that he, or Daisy wasn’t welcome in his house. And maybe it was too soon, as too soon as his damaged brain skipping like and going straight to love (he hadn’t even talked to the boy about this, for god’s sake) but he wanted them to think of the house as a home. It’d never been that for Harry, but with the three of them, he felt that it could be home.

At some point, Eggsy had navigated his way to sitting beside Harry, their bodies touching from shoulder to calf, which was better than just Harry’s feet being in Eggsy’s lap. At some point, Eggsy even dropped his head to Harry’s shoulder, the strands of his soft hair tickling at Harry’s nape and face; Eggsy’s tone had turned sleepy, so Harry thought it might just be that, but then he felt Eggsy’ start to fiddle with the edge of his pyjama shirt. There was no hesitation to his movements, only a confidence that Harry liked. And he sank into the other boy’s warmth as if it were as natural as breathing. It was not often that Eggsy was in his room, let alone in his bed… Harry thought he should be there more often, actually.

After a long silent pause, Eggsy whispered, ‘I think you should go to the Exhibit.’

Harry took a moment to digest the words before he said, ‘It’s rude to eavesdrop, Eggsy.’ Harry had meant for his voice to sound neutral, if not light; he failed either way.

‘Sorry. But not sorry,’ was Eggsy’s reply. The one time that Harry heard him cowed by his presence was, again, the night after he was brought home from the police station. He was not cowed now. ‘Merlin said you worked on projects like this before. Said he thought out of the politics every other part of your life had become; you’d enjoyed it the most.’

‘And he thought he had the right to say this to you?’

‘Don’t go getting huffy. I was eavesdropping, weren’t I? Was he just going to lie when I asked him?’

‘Why did you ask him?’

‘Why wouldn’t I? If it was something you enjoyed–’

‘You didn’t have the right, Eggsy,’ Harry snapped. Then immediately regretted it.

Eggsy became as stiff as a brick wall beside him, but thankfully, he did not lean away. Harry felt his exhale on his collar bone, and then a second later, the pull of the mug out of his hand; there was a louder thump than was necessary when the cup hit the bed table.

‘I’m sorry, then,’ Eggsy said, tone stiff, as well.

And Harry shook his head. ‘No need for the apologies, Eggsy. I am the one who is sorry. There was no need for me to snap.’

‘I get it you know,’ Eggsy said.

And Harry sighed. He hesitated for a moment, but then just gave into the itch, planting his cheek atop Eggsy’s head; Eggsy’s hair was softer still like this. ‘What do you get, my boy?’ Harry asked.

‘That’s its easy to be miserable than put in the effort to be better,’ said Eggsy, and Harry, but for only a moment. ‘You said it yourself, though, didn’t you? Accepting personal blame; the first step to personal gain.’

Despite the situation, Harry found that a smile was beginning to draw across his mouth. ‘Did I say that? I don’t recall,’ he said, even though he did.

‘I do listen when you talk, you know,’ huffed Eggsy.

And Harry chuckled. ‘I know, my boy. I do not think otherwise.’

‘I just think if you enjoy something, why make yourself miserable, instead? You’ve taught me that.’

Harry hadn’t said those words with the intent to teach Eggsy anything, and though he was glad that the words had had those effect, he didn’t think they related to him. ‘Eggsy, you will find that I am a great hypocrite.’

‘You don’t got to be. You weren’t trying to be for a while now.’

Harry didn’t have to be a lot of things. A pianist, a painter. A sightless man, a miserable man. But fate chose either way, and Harry hung on by the thread, or the glass of alcohol. But he hadn’t been doing that for awhile now. Eggsy was right, though. Harry had been trying to be otherwise, taking control of his fate, as it were.

‘It wouldn’t sit right if I didn’t mention it,’ Eggsy said, head coming to Harry’s chest. It seemed that he would put begging to differ to the test then, and Harry didn’t mind it. He found himself curling forward, giving into what this moment said about that, about what was growing in between them, more than they’d been ignoring and playing indifferent before. ‘I won’t mention it again,’ Eggsy said.

But Harry sighed.

He’d thought it before, and he meant it really. There was little that he wouldn’t do for Eggsy, if not for himself. And right now, that’d have to be enough.

Harry

‘You need a trim,’ said Eggsy and Harry stalled, where he’d been running his hands over the forest that had become the hair along his cheeks and chin. Over the last few years, he’d grown more of a beard than he ever usually had, and hadn’t cared for someone, let alone Merlin, giving him a trim, let alone shaving the entire thing off. Another display of Harry not trying to live if he could help it.

But Eggsy asked, ‘Do you want me to give you a shave?’

And Harry’s hand fell, not as he so much considered the question, as he tried to convince himself that Eggsy meant the question.

Harry asked. ‘Where’s Daisy?’

‘Down for a nap. She won’t be up for a couple hours still but I’ve got the baby monitor with me.’

Eggsy’s footsteps padded into the ensuite, the boy coming close. It’d been a few days since they’d fell asleep on the same bed, but Eggsy hadn’t acted any different. If anything, he was even bolder in his closeness and Harry didn’t mind. If only he could stop himself second-guessing Eggsy’s actions though.

‘I usually go to the barber,’ said Harry.

‘When was the last time you went to the barber?’ Eggsy knew the answer would be before he’d even met Harry, so the question was rhetorical at best, and Harry already heard Eggsy amusement. ‘I won’t cut you if that’s what you’re worried about–’

‘I trust you,’ said Harry. And he did. He trusted Eggsy, but this was about more than just trust, it was about comfort, and Harry wanted to know what was going on, as much he trusted that Eggsy wouldn’t, on purpose, make his skin bleed.

‘Tell me what you’re doing,’ said Harry, and he felt his shoulders relax when Eggsy just said,

‘Okay, Harry.’

So, Harry listened to Eggsy moving about the ensuite, gathering equipment that Harry hadn’t used in years. There was a clatter as they were placed atop the counter, then the gentle press of Eggsy’s hand on Harry’s hip as he nudged for Harry to… climb the counter?

‘There is a perfectly apt dressing table in the bedroom,’ Harry told him but Eggsy only laughed.

‘This will give me better height,’ Eggsy said, and then proceeded to, once Harry was sat on the countertop (because of course he’d do as Eggsy asked), to nudge at his thighs. Without much thought, Harry parted his legs, but then stiffened when Eggsy slipped between them.

The boy paused. ‘Alright?’ Eggsy asked.

Harry took a moment, observing the state of his body, his lower regions in particular which didn’t quite stir but there was something there, when there’d been nothing for months. ‘Fine,’ exhaled Harry.

‘I’ll start with the foam,’ said Eggsy, his words soft, low, keeping in with his promise to Harry. He described everything he did, before he did them and slowly but surely, Harry fell into a warm haze brought on by the boy’s closeness, his warm, the echo of his voice around all of Harry’s working senses.

Eggsy was pressed close to Harry’s body, a comfortable weight he’d felt when they’d been in bed together, though not like this. Harry didn’t mind it either, and his fingers twitched with the itch to pull Eggsy even closer but refrained, exhaling harshly through his nose until Eggsy asked again,

‘Alright?’ And Harry knew, without a doubt, that Eggsy knew the effect he was having on Harry.

So, Harry laughed and kicked the boy in the shin; gently. Eggsy laughed.

Eggsy’s hand was steady, the shave close to his skin. But that was not what held most of Harry’s attention. It was just the closeness of Eggsy, the scent of him flooding his nostrils, the presence of it. Before he knew it, Harry was relaxed, his chin easily tipping this way and that way under Eggsy’s instruction.

All too soon, the foam was washed away, his skin dabbed at with some sweet-smelling oil before Eggsy stepped back. He didn’t get too far though; Harry could feel him hovering at his shoulder.

‘How do I look?’ asked Harry.

‘Handsome,’ replied Eggsy. It was another break from their professional relationship, a bolder one than just the touches. Eggsy didn’t take the words back though, and Harry only smiled. He allowed Eggsy’s warm palm to bring his own hands to his face, feeling across the now smooth skin. Eggsy was plastered to his back, his words so quiet that when he next spoke, Harry didn’t at first hear him, despite the closeness.

‘Should we get dressed then?’

Right. Harry had shaved because they were going out. Eggsy was accompanying him before Harry would not otherwise go (and he could hear Merlin muttering something burgeoning co-dependency, but Harry was fine with ignoring him).

‘I’ll meet you downstairs,’ was what Harry said before Eggsy could also offer to help him dress. He knew the boy wouldn’t ask because Harry was incapable, but Harry did want to pace themselves. After all, they’d yet to properly talk about what they were doing. To ease any sting however, Harry pressed his palm to Eggsy’s hand, and after a moment, he felt the responding squeeze. And then something that might have been a kiss to his nape but it was so fleeting, that Harry’s wishful thinking might have imagined it.

Harry

Imani did have a point when she said that dressing up in more than just his robe would help him to feel like more than just a man alive. Whilst Harry could not anymore appreciate the visual aesthetic of his suits, he could well enough feel the cut of it on his skin. A bit loose, since he’d not had the time to go to his usual tailors for a fitted suit, but it’d have to do. And it did. Harry imagined what Eggsy would look like, decked out in one of Harry’s suits and his hand paused at his chest, over his heartbeat.

A racing drumbeat.

‘Harry!’ Harry heard Eggsy’s voice call up the stairs. ‘Jam-Jam’s here.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ Harry heard Jamal saying as he steadily went down the stairs, one hand on his cane, the other griping tightly to the railing. The muttered argument petered off at his presence, Jamal’s tone going all formal as it tended to when he spoke to Harry. ‘It’s a nice place you have here, Mr Hart.

‘Harry is fine.’ Harry said, absentmindedly. Harry knew he was scowling, and it had nothing to do with the other boy (he heard Eggsy mumble something to that effect) but he couldn’t quite help it. He did remember his long-taught manners however. ‘Thank you for agreeing to this.’

‘No problem, guv’nor,’ the boy said, losing the formal tone just as quick as he’d put it on. Harry wasn’t the grammar police, and didn’t bother to correct the young man, since he never tried to correct Eggsy anymore. ‘Daisy’s got a sweet spot for me.’

‘Not more than Harry,’ was Eggsy’s grinned response. His lavender wafted over to Harry before Harry felt him press closer.

‘No offence, but that’s what you think.’

If Jamal thought Eggsy’s closeness to Harry strange, his tone did not give it away. Harry supposed that he’d speak to his friends about their… relationship. Harry found himself wondering what they thought, but the then just as quickly realised that it didn’t much matter.

He didn’t take Eggsy’s hand like he wanted to, but an arm through the other was just as better. ‘Ready?’ Eggsy asked and Harry nodded.

Still, Harry realised that he probably wouldn’t be all that good of a date (if that was what this was. Harry wanted to think it was), as in a break of his usual, he was not quite able to sit still in the cab. Eggsy kept close to him, so could feel it all, but even when he pressed a hand to the top of Harry’s thigh, the nerves didn’t quite quit.

‘It’ll be alright,’ said Eggsy, leaning close, his breath warm against Harry’s cheek. ‘I won’t leave your side.’

‘It’s not you who I’m worried about,’ Harry almost snapped, just about catching himself. But he knew better by now than to think that Eggsy would not question his words.

Instead of asking a question though, Eggsy said, ‘From what Merlin said, everyone’s pretty well chuffed that you’re coming.’

‘That is not to say they won’t stare.’

‘So?’ Harry felt Eggsy shrug. ‘Let them. Can’t really do nothing about that.’

Harry’s lips pressed firmly together.

Eggsy then added, ‘Merlin says his security will keep close. Nothing’s going to happen.’

‘I didn’t think it would,’ said Harry but he knew that if it sounded, to himself, like he was lying, then Eggsy would hear the lie as well. It was a worry, of course. Harry had been of full vision and had still missed Valentine’s approach and unsavoury intentions. What chance did he have without one sense?

‘I won’t leave your side,’ repeated Eggsy. And Harry heard the determination then. And he thought that perhaps, he should be annoyed that Merlin had more than likely, gone into detail about what happened the night of his attack. But he also knew that this was Merlin’s own way of assuaging his own guilt. And Harry could at least admit to himself that the caution made him feel calmer.

‘Only twenty people or so,’ said Eggsy. ‘I’ll tell if anyone approaches?’

The boy was trying. Harry still thought that he shouldn’t bother, that really, he was wasting his time with Eggsy, but Harry wasn’t about to tell him so. Harry was selfish, and he wanted some good, was actively seeking out, after so long in the bad. So, he nodded at Eggsy’s words.

Harry

‘Eleanor Rhodes,’ said Eggsy, just before the woman herself said,

‘Mr Hart, thank you so very much for coming!’ Eleanor was the Head of these Charity projects and Harry usually found her to be trying, but with the best of intentions. He always supposed that he liked his money more than she did his art, but even with that knowledge, Harry smiled, the ease of his public persona falling into place sharply, but so not shockingly.

‘Lovely as always, Eleanor. I am glad for the extended invitation.’ Usually, Harry would do the charming thing and reach for her hand, to place a kiss to the back of her palm. But he kept his hold on Eggsy instead. ‘Let me introduce you to my–’ Mentally, Harry staggered and cursed that he should have thought of this before. ‘Companion. Mr Eggsy Unwin.’

‘Eggsy?’

‘Nice you to meet you,’ said Eggsy, in a way that Harry supposed meant he had a tight smile across his lips. Eleanor could be a snobby bitch, after all.

‘Likewise,’ she said though, still with her manners, before directing her words back at Harry. ‘The invitation would have always been extended, Harry. Even with your accident, you are still one of the finest painters of our generation. Your art, as well as your philosophy are of utmost importance to us.’

‘And your money,’ said Eggsy but in a cough, that Harry was sure that Eleanor still managed to hear. The boy’s gall made Harry’s lips twitch and tease out the last of the nerves lingering on his skin.

Harry found it even easier to navigate the networking part of these exhibits. Diligently, Eggsy made him aware of every person that approached (‘How do you know their names? Harry asked.

And ‘Merlin,’ Eggsy answered, with the unsaid “duh” in his tone. Harry just smiled at the fact that Eggsy had bothered to learn all the names of these people for his sake).

Some were polite and professional in their enquiries, and Harry was loathe to admit that Merlin was right, but it seemed like the art world had not entirely shunned him. There were invitations for guest lecturing, and the potential to publish a book on the thoughts behind his creations over the years. With his tongue stuck behind his teeth at the unexpectedness of it all, Harry wasn’t completely in the position to make his regrets or accept; Eggsy did so on his behalf, easily referring those who asked to Miss Morton.

‘You are friends,’ said Harry, after a sip of non-alcoholic champagne to clear his parched throat.

‘She’s the platonic love of my life.’

Harry cocked his head at that, but didn’t otherwise question what went on in the heads of the youth these days (and he had noticed Miss Morton’s patience for Eggsy, when usually, she’d be more a stickler against those who troubled her work).

After a while, Harry could tell that even Eggsy’s nerves were starting to lag. Harry had the stamina for these things, even after a few years. But whilst this was a smaller crowd, Harry was more of a crowd favourite than usual. There was no Merlin to glare others away, and it would quite defeat the purpose of networking. Just after a spirited conversation with one of Harry’s former students, Harry nudged Eggsy to lead them away from the centre of attention.

‘How about something to eat?’

‘Yes, Harry. I am starving,’ said Eggsy but just as soon, when they arrived at the buffet Eggsy hissed, ‘What the fuck is this? The portions are smaller than my hand.’

Consolingly, Harry patted Eggsy’s palm. ‘We’ll get takeaway later.’

‘We better.’ Then, ‘Mhm. Want to try whatever this is?’

‘Sure,’ said Harry and he expected Eggsy to place the food in his hand, but instead felt the nudge of something cheesy against his lips. Harry immediately opened his mouth.

‘Cheese Croustades,’ said Harry.

‘It’s not bad, yeah? Just wish there was fucking more of it.’

They eventually made their way to the exhibit part of the evening. Harry knew they had as Eggsy went quieter, not cautious so much as occupied. Their footsteps came to a stop and Harry assumed they were in front of a painting.

A sudden anger bolted up Harry’s spine then, causing a clench to his jaw; Harry needed a distraction, one of the alcohol variety, and very soon. Eggsy, so in turned to Harry, leaned closer just then and said,

‘You look very handsome.’ And Harry felt his face flush, even as he felt pleased by the compliment. ‘I should have told you earlier.’

‘You did,’ Harry reminded, in much as a dignified manner as he could manage. ‘In the bathroom.’

‘But this different, Harry. You are in a suit.’

‘I’ve been wearing suits for days now.’

‘Yes. But nothing like this.’ Harry felt the tug of his blazer where Eggsy pried the material between his fingers. ‘Very handsome.’

The anger eased, just as quick as it had overcome Harry. He did the breathing exercises as Imani had taught, and after a long exhale, did as he felt on impulse, which was to draw his arm from Eggsy’s and instead slot his fingers between the other boys.

Long and callused, emitting a warmth to juxtapose the constant frigid state of Harry’s; perfect.

Eggsy’s breath stilted. ‘Shouldn’t we not–’

‘No,’ said Harry, his thumb having found a part of Eggsy’s skin to repeatedly run over. Though, he then paused and said, ‘Unless you don’t want to–’

‘No.’ The vehemence in Eggsy’s tone made Harry snort. And then give the boy’s hand a squeeze, which Eggsy just as soon mimicked.

Harry then turned back to where there was probably a painting. ‘Describe them to me.’

There was a pause, then Eggsy said, tentative, ‘They’re very yellow.’

‘Did Merlin tell you what the theme was?’

‘Nah. I didn’t ask. Wanted you to tell me.’

Harry’s lips curved upwards, and he did as Eggsy as expected. From what he could recall, Harry told Eggsy of the thoughts behind the paintings, and in turn, Eggsy did his best in describing what they looked like to Harry.

‘I don’t see how a giant yellow ball is like art but like, it’s a well-drawn circle.’

‘You remind me of yellow.’

Harry felt Eggsy turn towards him. He’d been fairly good, all evening, of drowning out the other voices, not wanting to get lost in the public’s pity whenever they came across a blind person, but the world seemed to go positively quiet now. ‘How so?’ Eggsy asked.

How so, indeed, Harry thought, but not because he didn’t have an answer. He thought about colour and how he usually saw it, or seen it. Then instead of the visual itself, he thought of Eggsy and what easily came to mind when he thought about the boy. Creative. Thoughtful. Kind. Bright. Harry found himself smiling at the last word. That was how he saw, he realised and he told Eggsy as much.

The boy didn’t give a response, and for a few seconds, Harry thought that might have over spoken. Or said out of bounds for the careful steps towards the something they were making.

‘That is so cringe,’ said Eggsy but it was followed by a squeeze to Harry’s hand that made him chuckle. Then he asked, ‘Would it have been better, you think? To not have been able to see at all?’

It was a heavy question, in a public setting, after all. But where a question might have set Harry to moody a couple years back, he considered it with the seriousness that Eggsy deserved. Sometimes, Harry did think it would have been better. Knowing his parents, such a disability would never had led them to direct him towards the arts… And thinking that, Harry did not know at all where his life would have turned out. He could not help but think it would be for the worst.

Voices filtered into their little bubble of quiet, and Harry’s voice was soft when he spoke, but he knew Eggsy was close enough to hear him: ‘As the saying goes, it’s better to have known then lost, rather not to have known at all.’

‘I’m not sure that’s how it really went, Harry.’

‘No?’

Eggsy laughed, a slow thing that reminded Harry of a rising sun he’d never be able to see for himself again. But it didn’t quite matter as much as it usually would, not when Eggsy nudged his shoulder into Harry’s, still holding Harry’s hand as he said, ‘No.’ Harry heard his smile.  

Eggsy

September came around with a brisk chill that it made it seem as if summer never existed. For a time in a while, Eggsy was able to buy proper clothes for the weather and didn’t have to suffer through the thin wear of the stuff he’d had for years. He thought he’d feel some type of way about throwing all that stuff out, but there was more relief than anything else. And Daisy looked fucking cute in her new jacket.

‘We going to the park, Harry,’ Eggsy called out, when he heard the man shuffle into the drawing room. From her pram, Daisy made a bubbling noise. At the use of Harry’s name, no doubt. She was a proper fan of his, she was. ‘You want to come?’

Eggsy didn’t put expectation in his tone. He had a better gage on the man’s feelings, and he realised that sometimes Harry didn’t feel like doing anything, even if he didn’t have one of his headaches and it had nothing to do with Eggsy. Eggsy thought himself proper mature for not getting bogged down with whether he'd done something wrong when Harry went quiet, but he still worried. Not that the man would kick him out, or stop paying him (they’d already talked about Merlin taking over that, since it felt a bit weird to be holding hands with his employer) but Harry would talk himself into a place that Eggsy would struggle to pull him out of.

‘I think I will, actually,’ said Harry and Eggsy heard his feet shuffle towards him. He let out a sigh, but then smiled as the man came towards him. He didn’t have a suit on today but was casually dressed in a pair of jeans and sweater (Eggsy’s influence). ‘Shall we go to that café you like afterwards?’

‘You mean that café you like?’

‘I don’t recall having ever said that.’

Eggsy laughed but finished up with Daisy and got Harry’s cane off the hook by the door. It was slow going, getting Harry comfortable in a public setting. And Eggsy understood the uncertainty, so he didn’t push the other man, but it was pride he felt when Harry made suggestions of going elsewhere. Yeah, proud, that was what Eggsy felt.

They went for a walk in the park, then that café that Harry liked. They talked about getting a dog and what that might be like. As expected, Harry didn’t think he could look after one, not with his not-seeing and stuff, but Eggsy just said, ‘You do fine with Daisy, don’t you?’

‘Eggsy–’

‘And what about them guide dogs? They’re trained to look after someone like you, ain’t they?’ All Eggsy got was a firm press of lips, so he knew not to press further. He thought about what it’d do to the other man if he pressed his own lips to his own, but distracted himself with Daisy and the mess she was making with the croissant he’d been trying to feed her.

September drew on and it got colder still. Roxy was a cat person and sent Eggsy memes of cats whenever he bothered her too much, or made her laugh, or she just felt like it. At the end of September, Eggsy and Daisy walked passed a dog rescue centre and stopped in for a bit to pet some of the dogs. He (and Daisy) told Harry all about the trip at dinner later that evening, and Harry didn’t altogether comment, but Eggsy recognised the pull of his lips that meant he was going to smile (and that Eggsy was wearing him doing).

At the start of October, Eggsy thought about signing up to do his A-Levels. As expected, Harry thought it was a good idea and even suggested paying for a private tutor for Eggsy. Eggsy felt some type of way about that, at first. He didn’t want it to seem that he was sticking around Harry for his money… but well, he already lived in the man’s house. And once Eggsy was educated, he could look into being financially independent. And pay the man back. It eventually made sense to Eggsy.

‘I’m proud of you,’ Harry then said, and Eggsy nearly broke the dish he’d been about to place on the drying rack. He looked back at Harry then, where his hands were soapy and a wide smile on his lips. Eggsy thought about maybe he wasn’t going back to school for just himself, and about how he wanted to kiss Harry.

Harry’s mother visited them one time; she’d heard about Harry going out about the place and felt slighted that she hadn’t paid him a visit. Mrs Hart was of full sober clarity, and still, Eggsy would prefer his mum over her breed of ‘I am glad to see you happy, Harry. No matter what else you might think.’

She tried to kick Eggsy out of the room when he bought them tea, and Eggsy’s dislike of her ripened. He didn’t care then, to not look smug when Harry said Eggsy had every right to remain as he was, at his side.

‘Shit,’ said Eggsy, when she was gone. It was a good thing that she’d come during Daisy’s nap; Eggsy didn’t think he’d be able to hold his tongue as well as he’d done if she’d made some passive aggressive comment about his little sister. He turned to face Harry, then, to gage how the other man felt about the interaction, but before he could say anything, Harry said,

‘Tea?’ which about summoned his feeling towards his mother, Eggsy thought.

Eggsy stared at him for a second, trying to judge whether this was something they should talk about now, or whether it could wait for later. Reading his mind, Harry said, ‘Later.’ Then, ‘Promise.’

So, Eggsy nodded, ‘Tea, then.’

Harry had a garden but he didn’t much go into it. His glasses weren’t quite able to deal with the minute things on the floor of open spaces: tree branches, rocks, the neighbour’s cat. The last time Eggsy had seen Harry in there was on their impromptu barbeque but that was where he found the man one October after. Underneath the apple tree.

Checking that the baby monitor was still in his back pocket, Eggsy slid the back door open and joined the other man. ‘Hey, you,’ Eggsy said.

‘Hello, Eggsy.’

Eggsy sat down beside Harry and just watched his face for a moment. The wrinkle lines had smoothed out, and Harry’s skin was less pale, even with the sun hiding out behind a couple of clouds. Eggsy didn’t think everything was fine, Harry still went to therapy, and didn’t always listen to Merlin’s ideas about making stuff easier for him… but he thought Harry looked more peaceful? He wasn’t drinking, at least. And that was already a good thing.

Eggsy probably sort of ruined the mood when he asked: ‘Will you ever paint again?’

For a long minute, Harry didn’t answer, and Eggsy was fine with not getting an answer. He didn’t think he was a miracle or something that would give Harry the will to live. Not that he’d thought that Harry didn’t have it… But who confronted a possibly armed burglar?

‘Maybe,’ said Harry and Eggsy’s head snapped up.

His mouth hung open for a moment, before Eggsy asked, ‘Swear down?’

Harry snorted. ‘Sure.’

‘I want to kiss you,’ blurted Eggsy. And he heard himself, knew what he meant, but still, the heat made his cheeks feel as if he could fry something on it. Look at him, the gall of it; he’d only come out to his friends weeks back (and they proper legends about it, no lie) but here he was, making demands.  Eggsy didn’t think he’d read Harry wrong these last few weeks, and he did get the sense that the other man was waiting for him to initiate–

‘Go on, then.’

Eggsy smiled. ‘For real?’

Harry raised his eyebrows, turning his head to face Eggsy. Glazed over eyes met Eggsy’s, even as the irises lagged. But never did Eggsy feel so seen. He leaned in, didn’t let himself think about it too much.

Harry tasted sweet, like the fruit juice Eggsy had made them for lunch. His lips were soft too, even if chapped and dry by the wind. Eggsy like it, he pushed for more, and grinned when Harry laughed. It wasn’t this mind-blowing thing then; there wasn’t enlightenment or some other shit. It just felt natural; perfect.

‘Fuck,’ Eggsy whispered, when he got his breath back. ‘I’ve been wanting to do this for a while now.’

Harry’s lips quirked, and they were reddened. Not because of the cold or the wind, but because of Eggsy. Eggsy wanted to kiss him again, but paused when Harry said,

‘I should try you to convince you that you don’t actually want to be with me–’

‘Harry–’

‘But I won’t.’

Eggsy made some noise at the back of his throat; he didn’t quite know what it meant but he said, ‘I want to be with you, Harry.’ It was the most certain thing he’d felt in months. Maybe, years. Eggsy didn’t much think about himself, his position and how unlikely it was that he’d gotten to properly know Harry the way they had. He didn’t want to let the bad, get in the way of the good. He wanted to raise his palm to Harry’s cheek, feel the softness of his skin, kiss him; so, he did.

Harry sighed when they broke apart again. ‘I want to be with you,’ said Harry.

‘Yeah?’ Harry’s hand came to where Eggsy’s cupped his cheek. Larger and calloused; perfect. Eggsy didn’t think everything would be perfect; it was just one October afternoon and there were still things they needed to sort out. Be proper adults and communicate about. But looking at Harry like this, with the soft touch of the other man against him, Eggsy didn’t think it’d be too hard. And after the life he’d had, that was good enough. So, when Harry pressed his forehead against Eggsy’s, missing at first before Eggsy corrected the touch, he could only grin when the man said,

‘Yeah.’

Eggsy kissed him again.