Harry, who has been silently fidgeting under the tablecloth since the start of their dinner, is finally alarmed by Eggsy’s “I’ll be back in a mo’” restroom absence. He takes a small sip of water to help ease his uncomfortably dry throat while signalling for the waiter with his free hand.
“Can you bring out our next course once we’re both back?” he asked, and only gets up to leave when the waiter smiled politely and nodded ‘yes’.
As he walks closer to the restroom area, the waves of doubt and nerves he fought off while choosing the right cufflinks that morning, a pair from Tom Ford, for this bizarre ‘date night’ return in droves.
It’s not exactly a dinner date per se, but rather, a bought-at-a-work-auction night out at a fancy restaurant which Eggsy chose. Harry’s supposed to be the one to decide what they would be doing considering how he is the highest bidder for Eggsy’s night.
But he also doesn’t simply “win” if one closely examines the entire process, from Eggsy’s text begging him for help because “Harry, no one would pay 500 quid for a day with me. Roxy’s gonna tease me forever if the room’s silent the entire time I’m on the stage!”
Harry had so wanted to reply with “I’d gladly pay ten times that amount just to be alone with you for the duration of Schubert’s Fantasy in F minor” but that was hardly appropriate. And besides, the reference would be lost on Eggsy.
Harry was, and still is, pleasantly surprised when Eggsy texted him back his choice of restaurant. Bocca di Lupohas been Harry’s favourite place to dine for years, especially when he’s become too tired of takeouts or has no energy left to assemble a decent tuna sandwich. The place, like most of his treasured things, is kept as a secret and Harry’s never taken anyone there, not even Merlin. And yet, he didn’t even hesitate for a moment to type an “as you wish” message back to Eggsy’s suggestion.
God help him, he’s become too fond of the boy to deny him of anything.
Clearing his throat, Harry makes for the softly lit hallway that leads to the wash room.
The muffled voice inside halts his steps as he recognises it’s Eggsy talking on the phone with someone else.
Being brought up with politeness and etiquette ingrained onto his mind, Harry’s almost turned his back in that moment to allow his dining partner some privacy when he hears his name from Eggsy’s lips. And when he’s not a man nearing his mid-50s with a daily heartache born out of unrequited love, Harry Hart is a trained spy working for a super secret British intelligent agency. Therefore, it’s simply natural that his first instinct in such a situation is to stay back and listen.
When Eggsy gets back to their table, his usual reserved-for-Harry smile is back at full force. Roxy always calls it the infatuated fool’s grin, but he prefers to think of it as something that only Harry could bring out in him.
As he sits down, the waiter approaches them with the trolley carrying their dishes.
“Sorry for the long wait, my Mum called and gave me practically a shopping list of stuff to get at Tesco. I didn’t tell her that I’d be otherwise engaged,” he explains with a grimace.
Putting down his glass of wine, Harry rests his chin on one palm and slightly tilts his head, the subtlest hint of light catches on his brown eyes and softly caresses Eggsy’s heart.
“Oh?” Harry says, his voice dropping so low that the question mark is non-existent.
Suddenly nervous, Eggsy rubs his palms once, twice, on his suit-clad thighs under the table, says, “Yeah. Mums, you know.”
Harry hums. “I do.”
Then, he picks up his knife and fork, cutting into the ravioli with the precision of a man who knows intimately where a man’s organs are located, and takes a small bite.
Eggsy dry-swallows at the barest sight of Harry’s sharp, pearl-like teeth. He hastily grabs his glass of water and gulps down to hide his embarrassment, Harry chooses that moment to slowly say, “I also know your mother isn’t called Merlin.”
With a careful smile, Harry hands him a napkin for Eggsy to wipe off the spilled liquid.
“You should be glad it’s not wine.” Harry takes another bite, eyes not leaving Eggsy’s.
“Er. Yeah.” There is sweat starting to gather at the back of Eggsy’s neck.
Fight or flight? It all depends on how much Harry heard. Fight: tell him the truth and confess his feelings. Flight: ask Merlin to make him a fake passport and live out the rest of his life in a deserted island mourning for his nipped-at-the-bud love.
“So. The auction,” Harry starts, getting right to the core of the matter. “It was all of you guys’ doing?”
Fuck. He knows everything. Flight, flight, flight! Thought Eggsy’s brain.
“Mmm,” is all he can muster.
“Was it funny?”
“What?”
“I said, was it funny? To toy around with my feelings?”
“What?” Eggsy repeats, completely losing track of where this is heading. If it is heading somewhere at all.
“Him, setting up a fake charity auction. You, pretending to ask for my help with the knowledge of how I feel. Felt. About you.”
The sharp, metallic clinks of Harry’s knife and fork on the still-full plate sounds like shattering glass to Eggsy’s ears.
“What did you mean when you say you felt something for me?” Feel? Felt? Why do tenses matter at all?
“Don’t try to change the subject, Eggsy.” Harry’s eyebrows furrow, he looks away as if in pain.
“The subject, Harry, is what I see as important.” Eggsy leans his upper body towards Harry, always to the direction of where Harry’s at, that’s the default state of his entire physical being now.
Biting his lower lip, Harry sighs. “What I felt doesn’t matter now. It’s all a complete joke to you anyway, isn’t it? I understand. I get it.”
“Get what?”
“That this is your way of letting me down gently.” Harry winces.
“That’s,” Eggsy sucks in cold air, “utter and complete bullshit, Harry.”
His right hand, which has been gripping the tablecloth, moves to grab Harry’s retreating one and secures it there. Because this is not the time for either one of them to be a coward.
“How can I let the person with whom I have been in love with for months down when I don’t even know if he feels anything remotely romantic for me?” He says it all in a rush, afraid that Harry will leave if he so much as hesitates.
A beat of silence. Then:
“You mean?”
“Yes.” Eggsy chuckles nervously.
“That you-”
“Yes, Harry.”
“And I-”
“Of course.”
“But then-”
“I owe him a lifetime supply of KFC hot wings.”
“Oh.” Harry shyly looks down at their joined hands.
“Yeah. Oh.” Eggsy grins, the fondness in his eyes no longer a secret, and does the same.
He brings Harry’s hand up, Eggsy’s thumb lightly touching the skin on his fingers, steady and sure, and keeps their eye contact as his lips descent on the older’s man hand.
He doesn’t miss the way Harry’s skin flushes at the base of his neck and how lovely the scarlet tinge spreads to his ears and cheeks.
Is this still the same man who interrogated him five minutes ago?
He is, and Eggsy adores Harry for it.
Harry coughs and tries to find something else to say. “Does this mean you won’t be doing your Mum’s shopping later then?”
Eggsy laughs, his nose rubbing at the back of Harry’s hand.
“No, Harry.”
He looks up, calm and brave now. He feels Harry’s light pulse on his ring finger.
Softly, he says, “No. It’s a rule which I made up moments ago, by the way. That I don’t go to Tescos on the night when I’m finally out on a date with Harry Hart.”
In Eggsy’s head, Harry Hart has always been synonymous with ‘the one I hold dear’ or ‘he whose life I’d trade mine for in a heartbeat’.
And it isn’t exactly an appropriate thing to say them aloud now.
But with the way Harry’s hand remains under his on the table the entire night, Eggsy knows that sometimes, sentiments are better felt than said.