“ I want the bottles and     I’m gonna GET the bottles     and I’m gonna DRINK them     ALL.

Great. Just BLOODY greeeat.

‘ Y’know     no one gets that there’s a difference between Hebrew and Yiddish.                   Not even the news, man... ‘ 

"I love ya," Eggsy mumbles, his fingers finding Jamie's arm. The grip in them is impossibly weak, and Jamie feels a vice around his chest, cutting off his lungs. Eggsy’s head is on his lap, and Jamie presses a heavy hand against the stab wound in Eggsy’s side. Lifting it gingerly, Jamie glances down at the blood coating his palm, pulse spiking when he realizes that the blood hasn’t stopped flowing. He returns his hand to the wound, trying to ignore the hiss of pain that accompanies the action.

"I love you, Eggsy," Jamie says quietly. He pushes hair from Eggsy's sweaty forehead, keeping his eyes carefully trained on the boy. He deserves his attention at this moment; Jamie can’t imagine not giving it to him. "Since the beginning."

Eggsy's laugh is choked and thick with blood. "I knew it," he responds, shifting his head to look at Rhys. "I fuckin' toldja."

“Don’t try to talk, we’re almost there,” Rhys answers, and Eggsy lets out a shaky sigh. “Dalton, hurry the fuck up.” Dalton grunts in response, the engine revving as he accelerates, making his way down the street faster than he should be. Nobody comments on it, not when Eggsy’s breathing turns a bit harsh and whiny.

“Jamie,” Eggsy calls out, his voice little more than a slurred whisper. Jamie hushes him, if only because Eggsy sounds pained when he talks. Eggsy is nothing but stubborn, however, always has been. “Jamie, I did good, yeah? Didn’ I?”

“You did.” Eggsy’s eyes light up, beaming, and Jamie swallows thickly, his hand moving to pet Eggsy’s hair. The boy leans into it, revelling in the touch. “M’proud.”

Eggsy closes his eyes a few streets later. He stops breathing before they even reach the hospital. Jamie doesn’t stop stroking his hair until Dalton pulls him from the back seat, his brother’s hand gripping the back of his neck so tight he thinks he’s going to snap. They don’t make a sound, quietly standing together, and through the emptiness of his mind, Jamie can hear Rhys screaming and cursing at the hospital staff who come to take Eggsy from the car.

Jamie steps away to light a cigarette. He struggles with the lighter, his fingers slick with blood, and once it’s lit, Rhys steals the cigarette, bringing it to his lips and taking a long drag. Jamie doesn't comment on it once he sees how much he is trembling.

"Did you mean it?" Rhys asks. His voice sounds raw and abused. When Jamie doesn't answer, he turns to look at him, gaze guarded and cold. “When you told Eggsy you loved ‘im, did you mean it?”

In a few days, they’re going to bury Eggsy in a proper grave. They’re going to drink to him, honor his memory. Jamie’ll have to speak to his mum, make sure she and the little one are well provided for. He’ll have to live with the memory of the look on Eggsy’s face every time he caught him staring, that impossible adoration that was etched in his features until his last breath. For months, years, maybe, he won’t be able to look at another fresh-faced runner, eager to prove himself useful, without feeling that vast, overwhelming guilt over the one who put everything on the line when he gave nothing back.

Send me “Moan” and I’ll generate a number!notgey

Twenty-Two: Our muses have sex in an unconventional place