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Watching Harry die had been surreal.
Shite, the entire bloody set-up had been surreal: observing from both Harry’s perspective and the perspective of the several cameras that had been set up around the church. Eggsy had seen Harry fight before, and it was definitely awe-inspiring; but he’d never seen Harry go absolutely ballistic, moves so fluid and precise and fuck if Harry Hart didn’t look like a fucking machine. Eggsy peered transfixed at the laptop screen, palms twitching as he watched Harry move through the throngs of people, one kill flowing into the next; and it was pretty screwed up, he’ll admit, but in that moment Eggsy found himself thinking that Harry Hart could get it any day of the week.
And that thought wasn’t exactly new, but it was something Eggsy had previously shoved aside, something not to be pondered at any length. Eggsy wasn’t bent exactly, but it would take someone a lot straighter than him to look at Harry Hart and not find him attractive. When he first met Harry outside the police station, he remembered thinking that if this posh bloke wanted a bit of rough in exchange for his troubles, Eggsy wouldn’t have minded one bit.
It didn’t help that Harry was an actual gentleman, and a spy, and completely professional, because that was all just as fetching. However, it was because of these facts that Eggsy checked his admiration (read: hard on) and tucked it away into some dark cranny of his person, not to be disturbed except for quiet, private occasions.
Kingsman training did a lot to strengthen the relationship between student and mentor; as the weeks passed and Eggsy spent more time in the company of the seemingly-uptight Galahad, they had a developed a certain . . . comraderie. Or, not comraderie exactly, but something like it. It didn’t take Eggsy long to figure out that, not only did he find Galahad sexy, but he genuinely liked the man as well—which was great, but did fuck all to help him keep his interest in check. He did what he could, but it came out at odd moments: he would find himself staring at Harry for no discernable reason, find his idle think about him without any external prompting. For some reason, watching Harry slaughter a bunch of hicks in a small church in Kentucky had brought it out of hiding again.
Watching him subsequently die outside a small church in Kentucky had seriously fucked Eggsy up.
Which was how he found himself in Harry’s empty flat, drinking Harry’s good scotch, slumped on Harry’s sofa.
Staring at the black screen of Harry’s TV, Eggsy brought a tumbler to his lips and tipped it back, taking a generous swallow of scotch. It burned, but not as much as it had earlier, which was just testament to how tossed he was getting— planning to get. He wasn’t really sure how much Harry would appreciate it. Actually, he was pretty sure that Harry wouldn’t appreciate any of it: Eggsy, in a Kingsman-made dinner jacket and black bowtie, drinking alone in the dark, reminiscing. “Wasting time”, he might have said, or “feeling needlessly sorry for yourself”. But Harry wasn’t there to judge, was he, and that was why Eggsy was here in the first place.
It had been over two months since Valentine’s failed attempt at a world-wide cull, and Eggsy had been on three assignments since then. They were small, mainly intel reconnaissance, and this last one had teamed him up with Lance (Roxy happened to like the nickname). They’d been posing as a young couple at some gala for wealthy socialites and it had gone over well, well enough that they’d been able to leave at a fairly decent hour. After debriefing at HQ, it had just struck midnight; Lance bid him good night and went to her place, and Eggsy had been left with the option of going home to the house he lived in with his mum and baby sis, or going to Harry’s.
Lately, he seemed to favor the company of dead men.
Why he had chosen to come here was beyond him. It wasn’t as if this was healthy, and Eggsy wasn’t ordinarily that conscientious of such things, but he definitely wasn’t a masochist. Or maybe he was. Going here allowed him to do only one thing: think about Harry.
The first time Eggsy had come here, he’d been wary of everything in a way he would have never been if Harry were alive. When Eggsy had been over here before, with Harry’s permission or at his request, Eggsy had felt very at home; now that Harry was gone, however, he was afraid to touch anything. Disturbing the stillness seemed almost sacrilegious.
The first time here, he hadn’t the balls to do much more than sit on the sofa and stare at his surroundings. Now, a little over a month after Harry was dead, he had a routine.
He would come inside, hang his coat up in the entryway. He would loosen his tie and walk over to the stereo system in the living room; he would select something at random from the (admittedly impressive) collection of CDs and vinyl records that Harry owned. Once he’d found something suitable, he would go to the mini-bar on the side of Harry’s kitchen, take down the scotch or bourbon or cognac, and fix himself a drink.
And, after he was feeling significantly buzzed, he would undo his button, slide down his zip, and begin to palm himself through his pants.
Eggsy took another drink of his scotch. He didn’t know if this was pathetic or what—actually, you know what, fuck that, this was pathetic—but he was already halfway hard from the anticipation of what he knew was coming. It was fucked up beyond words, but the perversity of his actions had never bothered Eggsy before and he wasn’t about to have a battle of ethics with himself. He drew the line at shooting dogs, but there was very little that Eggsy couldn’t get comfortable doing, with enough practice.
So he didn’t feel awkward or shameful at all when he set aside his tumbler, shrugged out of his dinner jacket, and slid his trousers a little ways down so that he could free his prick from them.
Shifting his hips, Eggsy closed his eyes and grabbed the base of his cock, giving it a long, slow stroke. He paused, then stroke again, drawing out the movement, teasing himself. Slow generally wasn’t Eggsy’s MO: he preferred hard, fast, and hot—or, at least he thought he did. It was what he was used to. But when he did this, did Harry, it was almost always started out slow. It was slow because Harry would want it that way, wouldn’t want to rush Eggsy. At least, not at first. It always felt like a first time.
Eggsy pulled at his prick again, several strokes in quick succession followed by another long one. The first few times he had done this, he hadn’t let any fantasies invade, just got the job done and tried not to think. Now he simply let his mind wander: he imagined Harry leaning over him and watching, observing Eggsy jerking himself off. He imagined Harry’s cool, unperturbed gaze and his mouth, pressed into a firm line, severe and undecipherable.
He imagined what it would have been like to have that firm mouth pressed up against his, to kiss Harry. Harry fucking Hart. He thought of brown hair and a wry, world-weary smile that Eggsy was certain could become wicked with the slightest shift of muscle. Eggsy thought about Harry’s hands, dexterous and confident and dangerous, carding through Eggsy’s hair, sliding down his body—
“Fuck—” Eggsy bit out a groan, his hips lifting slightly as he bucked into his hand. His skin felt hot and feverish, sweat beginning to collect in tiny little droplets at his hairline, along his upper lip. He kept his eyes closed, focused on the hardness of his leaking cock, focused on Harry, Harry, Harry. . . .
It only took a few more minutes of rubbing and cursing before he was spilling hot and sticky over his hand.
Eggsy sat there for a moment, limbs loose and limp, sprawled over the sofa feeling debauched and somehow (always) a little bit empty. Because, after the haze of his orgasm had cleared, there was really no getting out it: it was night, and he was sitting alone in a flat that was not his, drinking hooch that had belonged to someone else, listening to music in the dark and wanking off to the thought of a dead man.
It was more than a bit fucked up.
But it also didn’t matter, because it was all that Eggsy had, all that Harry had left him with. Just an empty apartment and a mess in his lap and his brain.
With a grunt, Eggsy leaned over and grabbed a few tissues from the box he’d placed on the end table. Holding back a sigh, he wiped himself off, his hands, his pants as best he could, then roused himself from the couch and went to pour himself another drink.