#bisexualeggy

It started as a joke. Just a joke, Eggsy feel obligated to mention. Nothing more, a few words shared between friends when Roxy started to notice his attraction to Harry Hart, gentleman extraordinaire, dead man walking. Just a joke.

 “Yo, Eggsy, look”, his new best friend calls out right before she plops down on the sofa next to him, a glass of wine in one hand, her phone in the other. They have spent the last three hours drinking, first beer, then shots, and now wine, and Eggsy can feel the buzz of the alcohol beneath his skin, his head fuzzy and his eyes focussing a little bit too slowly. He doesn’t mind, though, he loves it, and so he just takes the glass out of Roxy’s hand and gulps down a mouthful of far too warm Riesling, waits for Roxy to show him whatever it is she found. It takes a bit, because Roxy looks at the screen of her phone and starts giggling, a rather unattractive but kind of cute snort mixed into the laughter. “What is it?”, he finally asks, because Eggsy has never been a patient man, grabs Roxy’s hand to angle the phone towards him – he wouldn’t dare to actually take it, he might not make it out of the room alive. “…holy shit.” “The perfect present for Harry, wouldn’t it be?”, Roxy asks in between bouts of giggling, steals her wine glass back and takes a sip while still laughing. How she works that magic, Eggsy doesn’t know. “Buy it, please. I beg you. Please.”

It’s a shirt. Which, in itself, wouldn’t be too bad, light grey, which Harry might even like, but right across the chest, there is a word, spelt in big, bold letters: D A D D Y. Eggsy couldn’t possibly buy it and give it to his brand-new, sophisticated-as-fuck boyfriend, whose skin has probably never been touched by anything less posh than a silken bathrobe. “Lets do this”, he tells Roxy, before he can stop himself. “Get me my credit card, Rox.”

 Harry sets a package on the kitchen table while Eggsy munches the sugary cornflakes the other dislikes so much, drops a kiss to his head, which, even after more than a month of being touched and touching, of being kissed and kissing, still makes Eggsy’s insides melt a little bit, his heart pick up its pace. “The postman just dropped this off”, Harry tells him as he sits down, just while Eggsy wonder if stripping the dark red robe off Harry’s body would be enough to get him a quick blowjob before work. Harry borrows his butter knife and slices through the tape keeping the package together, his hands steady and God, Eggsy shouldn’t remember that Harry has killed people with those hands, shouldn’t remember that Harry threaded those long fingers into his hair the night before when Eggsy had fucked him. “I didn’t even remember that I ordered something, let alone online. At… daddysgirl.co.uk.”

It’s a second until Eggsy’s brain registered what it just heard, and Eggsy wishes he could just stay in that second forever, wouldn’t have to move on. Because suddenly, after almost two weeks, he remembers Roxy, remembers a phone, remembers a shirt, remembers… “What?”, he squeaks, there is no other word for it, tries to reach for the package, but fails miserably. After thirty years as a spy, Harry’s reflexes are far better than they should be. “No, don’t open that, Harry, please-“ But it’s too late, Harry’s gorgeous, long-fingered hands have already pushed the flap aside and reached inside; the only thing Eggsy can still do is watch in horror as the other pulls out a piece of fabric wrapped in clear plastic. He looks vaguely interested as he rips it open, and Eggsy’s brain dishes out several horrible scenarios at once – Harry will be disgusted, Harry will laugh at him and never take him serious again, Harry’s face will go emotionless, stoic as he stuffs the t-shirt back into the package, ignoring it for now and forever.

But apparently Eggsy’s former, drunken self wasn’t satisfied with just the t-shirt, no, there is a note along with it, which Harry takes out first, prolonging his agony. “To Great Britain’s Next Top Daddy with the greatest co- … Love, Eggsy”, the older man reads out-loud, stopping before the word cock and, if Eggsy remembers correctly, a very detailed description of what Eggsy intended to do next to said cock. “That is very, uh, flattering. Thank you, darling.” There is a faint blush on Harry’s cheeks, but Eggsy hasn’t got the mental capacities to think it sweet, to think it fetching; he’s too busy trying to mentally write his testament. And yet, although he has to know that nothing good is awaiting him, Harry reaches into the plastic wrapper and pulls out the t-shirt, holds it up and watches the horror that is Roxy’s drunken ideas unfold in front of his eyes. Eggsy is almost glad that he cannot see his face; he isn’t sure he could bear it.

When Harry finally, after what feels like a century and must definitely have been a minute, lowers the shirt again, his pupils are blown wide, the blush on his cheeks has gotten darker. “Eggsy”, he breathes out, and Eggsy doesn’t dare hope, just because there is no disgust in the other’s eyes. “I think we have something to talk about.”

 The first time Harry wears the t-shirt outside, is a bright, sunny day. Eggsy has just come back from a mission in Japan, and they have sufficiently celebrated his return the night before, Eggsy has the marks to prove it, even if they are hidden underneath his black polo. Harry is a considerate lover after all – a considerate daddy, jesusfuckingchrist. One of the many thoughts, maybe a dozen of them, which rush through Eggsy’s head at the word make him flush, and it’s only his spy training which keeps him from hiding his head in his hands. Like this, he just fears that somehow, through some creepy kind of tech, Merlin can read his thoughts.