"I'm off, then."
"Where you going?" Michelle asks, confused.
"Get a drink with the lads," Eggsy lies, and, before she can demand an honest answer, he's out the door.
"Probably that girl," Dean grunts, flipping channels.
Michelle shakes her head and sighs. "Probably," she murmurs, and continues reading.
Eggsy makes sure the door is closed and locked, then trots down the stairs eagerly, whistling quietly to himself. They don't know—but they wouldn't understand. So he won't tell them. And when—if—they find out, he'll just point out that he knew they'd be furious, and that's why he hadn't said anything.
But he doesn't care about that right now. His heart is pounding, he can't stop smiling. Oh please let this be the night.
Eggsy made a friend while in Marines training. That friend told him about a dance club that catered specifically to those of, um, "alternative lifestyles". That friend had also made him very interested in "alternative lifestyles", mostly because he'd had a terrible crush on them and they had never known or guessed. He hadn't even thought of that club in years. But a couple months ago, he'd been drunk and angry and lonely and decided to try it, with a masochistic hope of running into them there.
His old friend had not been at the club. Someone else had, though.
Eggsy walks, because he isn't sure he'd be able to sit still on a bus. It's not that far. It's fashionably unfashionable, as his good friend had put it. And walking warms up his legs, because he's going to be on his feet most of the night.
He has to wait in the queue, but he doesn't mind. He's used to it. The only bad part is that it's annoying that he's alone and everyone else has a friend or two or four. He's known here, though; when he gets to the front of the line, the bouncer grins and gestures for him to proceed, even though technically he shouldn't be allowed in yet. But he isn't going to be the one to protest.
Once inside, he scans the club thoroughly, hoping, hoping—there!
Eggsy bites back a shout, and instead darts through the crowd, heart pounding, dodging and ducking, to finally stand beside his partner.
His partner is taller than him, and older, but he never sets off any of the warning bells in the back of Eggsy's mind. He turns just as Eggsy halts at his side, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
"You're late," he says frankly.
"I know," Eggsy replies, takes the drink from his partner's hand, puts it on the bar, grabs the other's arm, and tugs him out into the middle of dancefloor.
He doesn't know his partner's name, and he doesn't care. He knows his scent—sandalwood and smoke—and the exact size of his hands, and his favorite song, and that by the end of the night his carefully combed hair will start to curl, as the product in it is broken up by sweat. Eggsy adores those curls.
The DJ is American, so her playlist is mostly American hits. Currently it's "Head Over Heels" by The Go-Gos. How appropriate.
Eggsy lets his partner unzip his jacket. He doesn't dare try to unbutton his partner's waistcoat. There are certain unspoken rules between them, and he follows them with a strictness and solemnity that would startle his mother. For instance, they do not dance in an obviously sexual manner, though Eggsy swears there's more intimacy between them than any of the grinders and gropers; and while his partner is allowed to steal his hat and jacket, he is not allowed to foist anything except his partner's wallet. He doesn't mind at all. He likes seeing his jacket tied around his partner's waist. He doesn't like his hat covering those cute curls, but his partner is too quick for him to snatch it back.
He's very glad the lights are dim and flashing, because that way no one can see him shiver when his partner's hand slides lightly around his hip. His right hand clenches on the other's tie; his partner wraps his arm around Eggsy's waist and pulls him close. This is it. This is the night. Oh please let this be the night—
But after one glorious moment pressed together, his partner steps back, and he has to let go or fall over. Damn it. Ah well. As long as he can keep touching him in some way…
The music is fast-paced and cheerful, and Eggsy forgets that moment of disappointment. There is nothing but music and the intoxication of actual fun. Damn, he's missed this.
"Why weren't you here last week?" his partner asks, raising his voice only just enough for Eggsy to hear.
"I got a new job!" he answers, grinning, as they execute a perfect spin-out, spin-in movement. "At the coffee shop a few blocks down."
"May I come visit some time?" His partner catches his hands and they waltz a little further away from the speakers.
Yes, yes, yes. "Um—I guess."
They dance for an hour straight, and then his partner leads the way to a small table in the corner. It's their table, now. Eggsy doesn't know how this has come about, but he doesn't mind. His partner spins him once more, and when he falls into his chair, too breathless to laugh, the other doffs his hat, sets it on the table, and vanishes to fetch them both a drink. Eggsy slumps, trying to catch his breath. Maybe he should go to the gym more. No, he already spends four hours a week there; this will have to do. Besides, his membership fee might go up.
His partner returns with two glasses of red stuff, probably Bloody Marys. He has a habit of refusing garnish. But Eggsy doesn't mind the salt, and accepts his drink eagerly.
"Will you be here next week?" he asks his partner.
"Yes," the other answers immediately. There's a short lock of hair popped out just above his ear. Eggsy wants to touch it. "That is, I will if you are."
"'Course I will be," Eggsy snorts, taking a gulp of cocktail to cover a grin.
His partner looks at him thoughtfully. There is a gleam in his eyes that makes Eggsy a little hopeful. But he says nothing more.
When their glasses are empty and Eggsy has caught his breath, his partner puts on his hat again (backwards, so a curl pops through the open bit) and leads him back on to the dancefloor.
Eggsy walked in at eleven. They stay until two in the morning, dancing, drinking, and people-watching. They rarely talk. Eggsy likes to think they don't need to. But it seems like such a short time… he wishes they could stay longer. But he needs to go home, and his partner always leaves with him. They always part at the street corner.
Except they don't. When they step outside, there is still a queue; they walk the other way, and when they reach the corner, Eggsy's partner unties Eggsy's jacket from around his waist, gives it back, and asks ever so casually, "May I walk you home tonight?"
"Yes," Eggsy replies immediately, grabs his hand, and leads the way around the corner.
It's chilly, as usual. He shrugs on his jacket, then remembers his partner doesn't have a coat of his own. Maybe the other knows that's what Eggsy's thinking, because he smiles a little and says, "I'm acclimatized. I was in Scotland all winter."
"Why?" Eggsy asks.
"My work includes quite a bit of travel," his partner answers, looking around with interest. "I don't think I've been to this part of town in a while."
"Oh—it's alright," Eggsy says vaguely, and, seeing it up ahead, points to the Black Prince and adds, "That's where me an' my mates meet up. My stepdad basically runs the place."
"Does he?" his partner murmurs, eyeing the tavern as if wondering how much petrol it would take to burn it down. "You never told me much about him."
"You never told me much about travel," Eggsy retorts.
His partner smiles again, looks around, then bends down and kisses him.
This is completely unexpected. Eggsy freezes, and when his partner stops and pulls away, starting to frown, he grabs his lapel and drags him down again.
They probably shouldn't be kissing in the middle of the street, but it's fun. He especially likes being wrapped up in his partner's arms and held just as close as when they're on the dancefloor. Closer, actually.
"Get a room!" someone overhead shouts.
"Fuck off!" Eggsy yells back. His partner laughs very quietly, and a little breathlessly.
"Perhaps we should move on," he suggests, and loosens his embrace just enough to start walking with his arm around Eggsy's waist. Eggsy refuses to remove his arm from his partner's shoulders. It's chilly, after all, and he doesn't have a jacket.
They make it to his block, somehow, though they keep stopping in dark pockets and alleys for long moments. Eggsy's mouth feels very bruised and over-used by the time they reach the stairwell. His partner goes all the way to his door with him, and gives him one last kiss—dear god he tastes so good—before removing Eggsy's hat from his own head and plopping it back on its owner's skull. Eggsy scowls, but, reluctantly, loosens his grip on the other's waistcoat.
"Next week?" he asks, just to be sure.
"Yes," his partner replies. He takes Eggsy's hand, kisses it, smiles, and walks away.
Eggsy watches until he disappears down the stairs. Then, glumly, he turns around and unlocks the door.
No one is awake, as usual. Eggsy is very careful closing the front door and locking it, and sneaks to his room, to peel off his sweat-soaked clothing and wish he had help. Would his partner mind the smell of incense that's still thick in Eggsy's room? Would he mind a decades-old mattress and scratchy blankets?
Would he mind knowing that Eggsy's mother and stepfather were only one room over?
Eggsy crawls into bed and tries to focus on other, more important things. Like how good those kisses had been. And how he was sure he'd felt his partner's erection against his thigh at one point on the walk home.
But he's tired and sad and aching all over, so he falls asleep quickly.
~~~\0/~~~
Eggsy is just finishing up an order for two cappuccinos when his partner walks it.
Eggsy has never seen him in full daylight. He looks very dignified in a grey pinstripe suit, carrying an umbrella like a cane, looking around with detached interest. Eggsy immediately ducks his head, hoping his company-issued hatbrim will hide most of his face for a bit. He sets the cappuccinos down on the counter and quietly slides back behind the machines.
"Hello, sir, what can I get for ya?" the American at the counter, Allison, asks cheerfully.
Eggsy's partner barely glances at the list behind her. "An espresso romano, please."
"Um—just a moment," she says, and slides over to Eggsy to whisper, "What's a "espresso romano"?"
"An espresso with lemon," he murmurs back, already reaching for a cup. "I'll make it."
"Thank you, E," she sighs, slaps his butt surreptitiously, and returns to the counter. Eggsy resists the urge to look and see if his partner saw. He doesn't really like it when Allison does that, but he wouldn't mind if—
No, he's daydreaming again. He frowns to himself and gets on with the work.
In a short while, it's technically time for "break". Instead of going into the back to wolf down a baguette and a cup of tea, he goes to the general manager and asks in a whisper, "A friend of mine came in, can I go sit with him?"
The manager, Cathy, raises one eyebrow, but answers, "You have ten minutes."
Eggsy knows not to argue with her. He just nods, grabs a muffin, and weaves through the tables to plonk down across from his partner.
The older man turns away from contemplating the street outside the window and smiles just a little. "Don't you have work?" he murmurs.
"It's slow today," Eggsy retorts, peeling the wrapper off his muffin. And it is slow; only a few tables have people at them, and his coworkers are holding conversations while they take their own breaks. Eggsy is not a social butterfly; he doesn't want to try and insert himself into such conversations when he is so new. So he will sit here and pretend he and his partner are alone.
Well, no, that's a bad idea. He's already feeling a little giddy just being so close, remembering those kisses they shared. He will pretend they are back at the club, and the ache in his feet is from dancing, not standing and walking in the same small space. The smell is different out here, too; more cluttered, but also more pure. Instead of coffee, baking, and burning, it's the softer fragrance of coffee with milk, of caramel syrup, of buttered pastry; a million people-smells, and, here, in this pocket of air around this table, sandalwood and smoke. Eggsy feels the knot of tension between his shoulderblades ease, and the throbbing ache behind his eyes fades. The only sounds are the clink of china, the tap of laptop keys, the rustle of papers, the sleepy murmur of the customers.
Eggsy really loves this soft, quiet place. He is glad he works here.
His ten minutes are up. He finishes his muffin, and as he stands he picks up his partner's cup and saucer, to take them back up. His partner raises his hands, an "I know better than to argue" gesture. Eggsy grins and returns to work cheerfully.
Cathy sees the grin still hovering at the corners of his mouth, and smiles too, a satisfied, knowing smile. "Why don't you go fetch your friend a complimentary beverage," she orders casually.
Eggsy nods, a little too eagerly, and mixes up a café au lait, being very careful to get it exactly right. Then he takes it back out to his partner.
"On the house," he explains, seeing the faintest crease on his partner's brow. "Um—so, about tonight—"
"Will you be there?" his partner asks calmly.
"Yeah," he answers, unable to stop another grin. "But I gotta got home early. I'm babysitting my sister tomorrow."
"I shall make certain not to keep you too late," his partner assures him gravely. Then, after glancing behind Eggsy, he asks, amazingly innocent, "Will your boss permit another ten minutes?"
Eggsy hesitates… but they don't need him. He was only hired out of pity. So he nods and plops down in the chair across from his partner, and they watch the people pass outside the window together.
Eggsy was only supposed to work a few hours today, and he feels bad for spending so much of his shift not doing anything; but Cathy just shakes her head when he apologizes and says, "Take Henry's shift next week and we're even."
Henry has a twelve-hour shift. Eggsy feels his stomach sink, but he nods and writes his name down before punching out.
His partner is standing by the door, writing something in a small notebook. When Eggsy approaches, he finishes whatever it is and tucks both pen and notebook in his jacket.
"May I walk you home?" he offers.
Eggsy nods, feeling his pulse in his throat. Why is he…?
They step out, and almost immediately Eggsy is met by Ryan and Jamal, who take one look at Eggsy's partner and take a step back.
"Oh—um," Eggsy says, but his partner cuts in smoothly, "Perhaps another time, then. Good evening to you. Eleven o'clock?"
"Yeah, definitely," Eggsy answers, torn as to what kind of emotion he should show. But he doesn't have time to decide, as his partner nods to him and his mates, turns, and walks away. God he's got a fantastic ass.
"Who was that?" Ryan asks, recalling Eggsy's attention. He realizes he's been staring after his partner for a little too long, and turns deliberately away to face the others.
"A friend of mine," he replies dismissively. "Thought you had work tonight."
"Nah, got off early," Jamal explains, a sly grin hooking the corner of his mouth. Uh-oh. What is he guessing? "Wanna grab a pint?"
No, not really. "Sure."
~~~\0/~~~
Eggsy really can't take much more of this.
Tonight, his partner seems to be extra flirtatious. It's mostly subtle; lingering touches, dancing just a little bit closer than usual, fingertips brushing forbidden areas like his hips and neck and mouth. Eggsy holds himself back with an effort, but the third time he feels the slightest touch on his ass, he reaches back lightning-quick and grabs his partner's wrist, pressing the other's hand firmly against him. His partner looks surprised, but when Eggsy scowls up at him, the corner of his mouth twitches, and he flexes his fingers ever so slightly, repositioning his hand.
Alright, that's it. Eggsy grabs his partner's face and kisses him. The other immediately wraps his arms tightly around Eggsy and kisses back.
Well then.
Someone bangs Eggsy's shoulder. His partner jolts; somebody bumped him from behind. They don't separate. It's kind of silly to make out on the dancefloor, but Eggsy is suddenly very horny and he doesn't care.
His partner breaks away, and he moans in protest. More, more, more. Please, just a little more.
"May I take you somewhere a little more private?" his partner asks hoarsely. Eggsy doesn't bother trying to hide another shiver. He likes that hungry look in his partner's eyes.
"Yes," he answers simply.
His partner lets go of him so suddenly he almost falls over, but then he's grabbed Eggsy's hand and is towing him to the door. He hurries after eagerly. Where are they going? Does it matter? Yes, but he's not sure he gives a fuck about anything except the fact that finally they are going to fuck.
Outside the club, his partner drags him to the nearest alley and pins him against the wall with another deliciously passionate kiss. Eggsy has very little mind left for conscious thought, but he wonders vaguely if he'll be in any shape to babysit tomorrow. Maybe. Doesn't matter. Don't think about it. Think about how hot the other's skin is. Think about how delicious his alcohol-tinted mouth is. Think about how good those hands feel, even though they're not even under clothes yet. Think about how terrifying this is going to be. Terrifying—but exciting.
His partner mutters, "Car is here."
Eggsy, intent on leaving the biggest hickey possible on his neck, makes some distracted noise of acknowledgement.
"Don't make me carry you."
"Please do," Eggsy mumbles, biting his partner's ear gently.
His partner heaves a sigh, and actually does pick him up, settling Eggsy on his hip, and carries him out of the alley to the edge of the pavement, where a taxi waits. Eggsy wraps his legs clumsily around his partner's hips and his arms around his partner's shoulders.
And then his partner slings him into the taxi, and climbs in after him, and as soon as the door is shut they return to making out. But now it's more restrained, because there's a driver and Eggsy feels a little awkward with another person that close. His partner is kind and follows his example; no hands in his pants, no torturous touches, just lots of good old-fashioned necking and hugs.
Strange. The crowded dancefloor had been invisible to him, and the city didn't matter; but this single person made him nervous.
No, stop it. Think of—think of how sweet and gentle the kisses are now. Think of how softly those hands start to sneak into dangerous territories again. Think of him.
It seems like mere moments until the taxi stops, and Eggsy's partner pulls him out. They walk up a clean, wide alley, kissing occasionally, and Eggsy waits, panting, knees trembling just a little, as his partner unlocks a door. Then they're through, and his partner sweeps him up a flight of stairs, diving straight back into the sweet fire of impatience. They've lost their shirts. Eggsy's jeans slide to his ankles at the head of the stairs. His partner kicks off his trousers and steps on the toes of Eggsy's socks, lifting him just enough that they pop off. Eggsy can't help laughing at this maneuver, and his partner smiles. Then he can't laugh because now his pants are on the floor in the hall and his partner lays him relatively gently on a very soft bed.
"Um," Eggsy says.
"Is this your first time?"
"Yes."
His partner kisses him, softly, kindly. "I'll be gentle. But tell me if it hurts."
"Um," he repeats.
A soft laugh and another kiss. "I'm sorry, I refuse to make you bleed. A moment more, love."
"But I wanna fuck now," Eggsy protests, digging his nails into his partner's shoulders. The fear is tainting the excitement, and if they don't start soon he's going to be too afraid.
"I'll make it up to you." A long kiss; fingertips trace from his throat down his chest to his abs to his… "I promise."
And he does.
~~~\0/~~~
"Where were you all night? Never mind, I've gotta go, I'll be late." Mum kisses Eggsy's cheek, apparently not noticing all the signs, and rushes out the door, heels clacking urgently. Eggsy shakes his head and sighs, locking the door behind her. He almost wishes she'd let him tell her. It had been… it'd been…
No, he can't tell anyone. He has to keep it close and secret. He has to let it fill him with warmth just for him, only for him.
Eggsy is grinning like an idiot. He doesn't care. He almost skips to his room, and shimmies out of his clothes; his partner, whom he now knows as Harry, had let him share the shower, but there hadn't been time to wash his things. So Harry had lent him a pair of boxer shorts as well. Eggsy is loath to take them off; they're high quality and extremely comfortable, even if they are a little big. But his body is (mostly) clean, so all he has to do is pull on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt and he's ready for the day.
Daisy begins to cry. Eggsy's good mood wobbles, dampens. How can he feel good when she's miserable?
He leaves his room to check on her. She's in her cot, crying, her face all twisted up, and she's nearing the screaming-point. Eggsy picks her up, wincing as the motion of bending over puts pressure on tender areas, and cradles Daisy in his arm, murmuring and doing a quick systems check. It's not her nappy—mum's already fed her—Dean isn't here to fill the place with cigarette smoke and noxious farts—
Daisy begins to quiet, as Eggsy rocks her gently. She just wants someone to hold her. Eggsy bites his lip to hold back anger. She's just a baby, and babies need someone to hold them and love them and keep them safe.
"Has mum sung for you lately?" he asks his little sister softly. "No? Come on, let's watch a movie and sing."
He pops My Fair Lady into the dvd player and curls up on the couch, unconsciously mimicking his mother, and holds his sister so she can see the tv too. Daisy sticks her thumb in her mouth and watches the movie with the same fascination that Eggsy always feels. She even smiles when Eggsy sings along.
"One day I'll be famous, I'll be proper and prim; go to St. James so often I'll call it St. Jim! One day the king will say to me 'Liza, old thing, I want the whole of England your praises to sing'…"
~~~\0/~~~
Ryan and Jamal are a little nervous, but Eggsy doesn't notice.
Harry is sitting at their table, sipping a martini. Even across the crowded club, Eggsy can see the grace of his movements, and it makes him shiver with happiness, longing, and remembrance. He's feeling rather descriptive tonight. But it doesn't matter; he wants his Harry. So he shoves his way through the crowd, waving for his mates to keep close so they don't get swept away, and, with them right on his heels, he forges a path to his and Harry's table.
It's been two weeks. Three times they've danced since the first night in Harry's bed; three times they've danced in that bed as well. Eggsy had had to tell mum something to explain why he was suddenly staying out all night more often, so he'd said he'd met someone; and she had immediately called on Jamal and Ryan to accompany Eggsy and scout out whoever it was so she could make a judgement ahead of time. No one had said this aloud; the boys had just looked at each other, and Eggsy had known. So now he's taking them to meet his "friend".
Harry sees Eggsy, starts to stand—sees others with him, and sits again, frowning ever so slightly. Eggsy is feeling reckless and happy, so when he reaches the table he leans down and kisses Harry firmly. He hears a muffled noise from Ryan behind him, but he doesn't care.
"Well, that's one way to say hello," Harry remarks when Eggsy stops.
"Yep. These're my mates, Ryan and Jamal. Guys, this is Harry. He's my dance partner."
"Good evening," Harry greets Ryan and Jamal. "I do apologize for not standing, but it seems I'm not allowed to."
Eggsy, having planted himself on Harry's knee, filches his martini and takes a sip, making a face at the taste. He still isn't used to vermouth. He'd have taken a chair, but there's only two at their table, and it's difficult to steal chairs from other tables when the club is this crowded.
Jamal looks around, locates an empty chair, and lunges, snatching it before anyone at that table has time to realize he was there. Then he sets the chair across from Harry and sits down. Ryan moves more slowly, casting horrified glances at Harry and Eggsy as he sinks into the seat beside Jamal. Eggsy feels a little bad… but only a little. He's quite comfortable here, leaning back against Harry's shoulder, the other's arm tight around his waist.
"So," Jamal says, then clears his throat, a little awkwardly. Ryan is still shaken. "So, uh, how did…?"
"Got drunk, grabbed him, he didn't seem to mind," Eggsy answers in a drawl.
"I had just received some bad news and it seemed a good distraction," Harry adds.
Jamal nods agreeably. Ryan suddenly stands and heads towards the bar.
"Is he alright?" Harry asks in a murmur, for Eggsy's ears alone.
"He'll be fine," Eggsy replies, loud enough that Jamal can hear. "He just needs some booze in him. Anyway, let's go dance."
"I thought you'd never ask."
Jamal stares, gaping, as Eggsy leaps to his feet and hauls Harry out to the dancefloor. Well, what did he expect? This is a dance club, of course Eggsy and his partner are going to hit the floor. Just because they're both guys—or is it other things, too? Like the age difference. Or the way Harry steals Eggsy's jacket, as usual. Or how Harry kisses him after only four songs. It's a very quick, soft kiss—but it's still a kiss.
Eggsy decides not to care. And so they dance.
"Head over heels, no time to go, can't stop myself, out of control; head over heels, no time to think, it's like the whole world's out of sync…!"