previously .

princess tilde:

     THE  WEIGHT  OF  HIM  .       there’s no scarcity for the demand in his presence where every other pair of knees bracketed ‘round his thighs were only ever stained by the ink in their case files,   and nothing more left to knock about his skull.   nothing to scratch the surface of   this  ,   where Eggsy’d bitten nails around his wrists   &   leaned over,    bowed a bit to hover   (   menacing ,     &   shivering off too many spokes down an emotional spectrum  .  )   Harry’d turned his face towards the pillow,    fingers idly curling in a dull cuff off circulation      ————     it’d stood to reason he’d had edges to himself that were better for consumption,   less  toxic  by nature,   molded into being everything above some idiot who’d let leak   harsher  realities   into what’d become such a pleasantly sweet safe - housing   ;    sans Eggsy in his lap,   &    Harry’s aching flaring past dull discomfort for every  twitch  still inside    (    to not let go of him,   if in more than the metaphorical means.   )    “   it is for now  ——    ”    easy enough,    sitting himself up again,   to cup hands at the base of Eggsy’s spine before he wobbled    &     .  .  .     grunted   for the next distant   throb .     easy  enough,    so let him understand that   truthfulness   was a choice   !    and nothing akin with catching the  tail - ends  of a conversation never intended for him just to brandish it as a weapon    /    burst,    more like,    with that ebbing crescendo   &   softer hands jumping to  slide   where Harry’s chest was left slicker .

    it was   just  like   Eggsy ,    then why bother flirting with   surprise   ?   what always bubbled back to crack the surface of someone who could stockpile   &   snip whenever convenient,    what’d weighed enough to push Harry into abstract ideas concerning the   for   now   portion of their house   &   home together    (    “   i imagine i’ll pick some  far - off  place,   ”     he could think back on murmuring beneath his coffee cup,    swaying away scrutiny where Merlin’d sat listening,    “   gradually peel myself away from him,   cease contact bit by bit      ———-     spare the potential grief of  a  second  death  from my part,    you see.   ”    )    always saturated in the  best  of  intentions    /      but who ever took note of those     ?

His gaze sharpens as he looks back up to the other man, brow furrowing as the other man speaks. They don’t do this. They never have. It’s one of the reasons that he’s actually allowed Harry to get CLOSE. Closer than anyone else in his life, certainly. He’s the only person in or out of work that he’s allowed himself a personal relationship. A man needs at least one friend, doesn’t he? Merlin never really thought that he did but it has made his time at Kingsman somewhat easier to navigate, after the initial insufferable annoyances from the older man’s stubbornness. But this is something past WORK, past their friendship even. It’s something new, uncharted territory, and while he usually has little issue with that sort of uncertainty, he finds it wholly terrifying in this particular instance. And he’s never scared easy. But this is a fear that’s always been there, in the back of his mind. A truth he’s been unwilling to acknowledge. “…I just don’ want this te effect our friendship, Harry.”

          so there’s something contradictory about his life before the egg,   y’know  ?   like a progression through all the years,   whenever he’d started obnoxiously documenting his own accomplishments   &   using the mementos as literal wallpaper as a  self - congratulations  because nobody else could really give him that,   to whenever he’d taken to somewhat obsessively collect   &   display the corpses of the things he loved rather than loving anything still breathing,   to examining his general behavior and  attitude  by the time he’d met Eggsy again       —-     really plainly,   the only one who cares more about mundane details and wellness of Harry is Eggsy,    and that’s only because Harry himself lost interest somewhere along the way.    i mean i’ll talk 4ever about stuff like context clues   &   blatant evidence that’d lead me to understand Harry as someone who isn’t particularly concerned with whether he lives or dies,   who was honestly  ready  to  when it came up to it,   and in the end I’d think Harry’d likely feel less over the loss of his home and all traces of his "normal" in tgc while  Eggsy’d  feel  everything.   Harry existed,   occasionally ran off to save the world without thanks,   then retired home to dump all recollection into cramming more junk into his office.   and that was it.

so then in the context of the Arthur!verse,   Harry’s routine is just  …   this inconsequential existence,   sitting alone scrawling over the morning paper’s crossword puzzles,   adjusting the muscle memory so accustomed to only ever cooking for one stomach even when Eggsy always seemed to make himself scarce around the time  ;  hardly comfortable in his own home   &   skin given the unspoken tenseness of coming back from the dead just to bear another dead man’s title while Eggsy’s still dragging under the weight of Harry’s.   it’d take a moment,  but there’s a stark  obviousness  to having come home after all this time to nothing but his own mismatched decor   &   endless dog portraits rather than any expectation of the average  twenty - something’s  first bachelor pad.   while Harry’s norm had gradually numbed itself to the details of his own presence,    there’s  something  in the revelation that’d Eggsy’d cherish the shit in his modest house to such an extent      ———     something that’d have him lingering at the threshold of his own office for the sake of  re - reading  every headline as if he were only just noticing them.