nysalogs | [november catchall

[picking up and having to relocate all over again really wasn't harry's first choice. it's not as if it were really that difficult--he didn't have all the trinkets from his real home in london that would have made it tedious. and after a life jumping from place to place on moment's notice from a threat the relocating itself isn't really anything different for him either. maybe it's simply the factor of so much still unknown--between these two areas, the terrorist attack, worrying for eggsy's safety.

he decides the best thing to do to find at least a bit of a constant and make some spare money is to do as he always has: maintain his cover. it takes a bit of searching and a whole lot of charm to find a small clothing shop and convince the owner to take him on for some extra assistance doing alternations and custom tailoring. believe it or not he is actually trained in the art of it--not his first choice of course, and he rarely ever had to make use of it back at kingsman's shop in london, but it's not like anyone here is raring for ballroom dancing instructors, piano players, or any other of the luxurious past-times his wealthier covers have taken on in the past. and seeing as a tailor has no business remembering much of his military combat from his youth, teaching someone how to fight is out as well.

he hadn't been expecting anyone to take him up on it, least of all the man he'd shared drinks with at the illicit fight club and been less than subtle spending the evening flirting back and forth over the rims of their glasses. but he's happy to help, and when byerly arrives he'll find harry alone bent over a pattern on the counter, staring at it thoughtfully and making a few notes. when he hears the click of the door he'll look up, a pleasant and not at all insincere close-lipped smile.]

Good to see you again, Mr. Vorrutyer. Come in and let's have a look.

[at his poor mangled piece from an unlucky trek in the jungle. harry's had several of those in the past few days alone, and he's never been so grateful for temperature-regulated, kevlar-lined and reinforced material on his kingsman suit as he is now.

Can I get you something, in the meanwhile?

[given the way their conversation had ended last time, maybe there's the barest bit of flirtation there, even if he's only being polite offering a refreshment.]

[ By's mood certainly isn't the best. This suit had been expensive - and more to the point, he'd liked it. It had flattered him. Nice cut, good stitching, fine material - and now, with a great big gash ripped into the sleeve by some vicious vines, it's certainly all but ruined. You can't just fix a suit. You end up looking like a ragamuffin.

And so he doesn't return the smile. Instead, his mouth is fixed into quite the pout. ]

A whiskey, if you have it. I need a drink after this disaster. [ And then, as an afterthought, neutrally - ] And just Vorrutyer, if you please. Not Mr. Vorrutyer.

[well, harry's had his fair share of lovely suits ruined, thought it's moreso a stray bullet or knife slice variety--and there was that one time merlin wouldn't let him live down involving a flame-thrower and a permanent singe on one of his favourite navy pinstripes. not that he can share this, but the point is, he can let his face fall into something sympathetic. there's decent enough whiskey in the cabinet, something the owner had left behind for any clientele he supposes, and he pours out a good amount into a glass before handing it over.

maybe he's even on the border of coddling as his tone takes on something meant to soothe.]

As it happens, even the worst of these unfortunate disasters can be rectified in the proper hands.

[he reaches out to thumb at the tear, feeling the split threads and taking note of how long and wide it is. his gaze flicks back up to meet byerly's with another smile, this one a little more triumphant and warm behind his glasses.]

A little bit of a complex reweaving, but nothing I can't handle.

Really?

[ By frowns in a bit of surprise. He looks down at the tear, then up at Harry. ]

I've never had a tailor who was able to repair something like this before.

[harry isn't one to outright brag about things, no. he'd much rather let his work speak for itself and do the showing off for him. still, after so many years of not receiving credit where it's due, he appreciates the rare occasions it's offered to him even in mild surprise.]

That's a shame. I'm only honoured I'll have the privilege of making sure you get a job done right, in that case.

[another flicker of a smile.]

I'll need a few days.

Hm.

[ By sips his whiskey, considerably better pleased now. ]

And what shall be the price for your genius, esteemed craftsman?

[harry glances to the side, over his shoulder slightly before leaning in conspiratorially.]

Normally this sort of thing would cost a fortune where I come from, but thankfully they aren't quite so snobbish here.

Besides, as an acquaintance of mine I think that deserves some consideration as well.

[harry steps back around the counter, writing out a few notes on the hand-written receipt before sliding it across the surface for byerly to have a look at. he's not foolish enough to think that even if they all had money where they once came from, that they've got the same amount of it now. it's reasonable, else this place would never have any business at all.]

How does that look?

Hm. Not bad.

[ Very reasonable, actually. Though By can't resist, shooting Harry a wink. ]

Would the price be lower if I offered partial repayment in the form of a kiss?

[absolutely not, I’m afraid, would have been his response back at kingsman. their tailoring business was strictly professional and on the books, though agents were no stranger to utilizing bribery and whatever methods would open up their marks when necessary. there’s not much harry would bat an eyelash at these days.

this isn’t a mission and really, it’s not like this is the same kind of establishment as a true bespoke tailor on savile row. besides, maybe down the line byerly will return the favour somehow. and for god’s sake, it’s not like they’re talking about selling secrets or high grade weaponry here. there’s a little room to haggle.

still, he can’t resist teasing a little, pausing a moment to pretend to think about it.]

What sort of establishment would I be working for if that was an acceptable form of payment?

[another pause, and then he lets his lip tug into a small smirk. he scribbles out the original number and offers another one across the countertop again.]

An interesting one, I should think. If you’re amenable, name your terms.

[right here and now? or after harry leaves the shop?]

[he hasn't forgotten their first conversation here--the end of october is the anniversary--would one call it that?--of rosalind's death. he still doesn't know all the circumstances and it isn't like he wants to pry, but he knows firsthand that on certain dates (the death of lee unwin, for example), it's better to get a stiff drink or try not to go it alone. so maybe he doesn't outright mention it when he asks her, but there is an ulterior motive for the invitation he extends.

he's fairly certain he won't be staying in wyver much longer, preferring olympia even if he hasn't necessarily put his trust in one or the other at this point. but for now it's more convenient to stay here until he and eggsy can both take the trip back--god only knows if they'll manage to get the same flat again. but for now he's still in wyver, and it's easy enough to find a bar that doesn't look as if they'll immediately get robbed on sight again. he turns to her once they've gotten a seat, raising a brow.]

And what would Madam have to drink to start off?

[he's got his own complicated request on the backburner for now.]

[It's no coincidence Mr. DeVere asks her to join him tonight of all nights, Rosalind is certain, but she's eternally grateful he doesn't mention the reason. She hasn't precisely been a wreck, no, but it's been . . .

Difficult. She always misses Robert, but never more than today. Today, her thoughts obsess over him, chasing after one another in a dizzying circle that leaves her breathless. Their death, their rebirth, the last words they exchanged, the way he looks in his pod up on the station, the way he still hasn't returned to her, on and on and on.

So it's good to go out. Rosalind crosses one leg over the other, settling in next to him.]

Scotch, I think.

[Why start light? She hardly intends to get drunk, but nor does she want something that won't hit her. Rosalind takes a deep breath, trying to ignore . . . a great deal, frankly. The fact that it's so bloody hot; the way her shirt is sticking to her skin here and there. The way people are obsessively pawing at each other more than one would expect in a bar; the way he's sitting, just near enough that they might touch, should they want to.

Which, of course, they don't, because that would be inappropriate, even if this is a social outing. But they could.]

On the rocks, naturally. Good god, but I miss England's climate.

[he'd remembered, of course, because his mind is an awful lot like a catalogue of facts and nuances that are to be archived and used at the proper time, should they be needed. it's hard for harry to look at anyone he's ever met outside of work as a true friend--not when they only know half his life and he has his rules not to do anything that would actually allow for a genuine connection to pave the way for something more. it's a lonely life, certainly, but he's made his bed for queen and country and he's spent the last thirty years lying in it just fine. the untold story between wyver and olympia and the recent attacks have given him a stern reminder that even if london has fallen and kingsman itself is no more--harry still has certain morals to live by. he's still going to do what's right.

even if it means allowing himself to adapt a little differently. madam lutece has been easy to get along with thus far--a true lady with surprises up her sleeve, a reminder of home, intelligent and absolutely worth making an alliance with. but he'd be a shit observer not to notice that she does seem different today, even if the limited knowledge he has only supplies that today is technically an anniversary of her murder.

two scotches--doubles, for her and himself. he's noticed the way the crowd seems to be a lot more open about their advances, but harry has been everywhere from nude beaches to deranged sex parties and really--a man who's lived through the '70s and '80s in their youth wouldn't really bat an eye at it. at least he's not sweating like the rest of them thanks to his temperature regulated suit, even if the smallest sliver of a curl is starting to fall dangerously close to his forehead from where he's carefully combed it together.

they have no choice but to sit close thanks to the proximity of others at the table cramming in, and harry bumps her elbows both in good nature and lack of space when he slides the glass her way.]

A very good choice, Madam.

[he takes a sip of it, long and languid, letting his head fall back with a refreshed ah before leaning in. it's not strictly necessary to keep his voice smooth and low, to lean in and look up at her with a pleasant smile--they're not sharing secrets yet, but everyone else seems to be and it feels better that way.]

That makes two of us. I don't think I'm quite cut out for the jungles of Wyver. Have you decided if you'll be returning to Olympia when this is all through?

Oh, yes. The scientific equipment is superior, the climate is more to my taste, and my housemate is already eager to set off. It was barely a choice at all.

[She takes her drink, though her eyes are locked on him. The way he leans in leaves her smiling faintly, and she wonders at that. She isn't inclined to smiling as a rule, and certainly not at this time of year. And yet here she is, amused and a little charmed that he's acting like this. She shifts as he does, facing him properly, her fingers sliding against the condensation on her glass.

Perhaps it's because he always reminds her a little of Robert. That quietly impudent gentility, the clever mind . . . and of course, the attraction doesn't hurt things. Her eyes flit over him again, and her slight smile grows. He's got to be at least ten years older than her, but age has never much bothered her.

Rather the opposite, really.]

But I've time for a few more indulgences before I leave.

Housemate? I hadn't realized you were living with anyone--not that it's exactly my business.

[he does sound genuinely curious--rosalind has always given him the impression of being rather controlled in what she allows to be given of herself. not that it's an unfamiliar notion to harry, who still hasn't even given his real name to anyone besides eggsy.

it's not hard to discern somewhat of a bold claim, particularly for the time period he knows her to be from. maybe it's the drinks or the atmosphere, but he's happy to see her mood at least somewhat lifted from where it started. he's even gotten a smile out of her, something he'll tuck away as a win.]

Another drink? Or were you thinking perhaps...when in Rome...?

[his gaze drifts to the men and women around them, laughing, dancing--pressed close for more than conversation. but harry can't find himself bothered or envious of them, not when everyone is in such good spirits and it's infectious somehow.]

[She glances out as well, lifting her glass to her lips as she does. There's all kinds of couples out tonight, some attempting to be more subtle than others. One eyebrow ticks up as she looks at two women, one of whom seems intent on slipping her hands beneath her companion's skirt. She's protesting, but laughingly, and it seems a losing battle.

She would have looked away some other night, but now Rosalind's gaze lingers for a few seconds, her cheeks flushed warm. Only once she's knocked back her drink does she glance back towards him.]

When in Rome, as they say.

[harry can't necessarily say he's never seen anything like it--there are certain countries where friendliness and even a bit of touchiness isn't anything outside of the norm--pick a random day in the summer on mykonos or st. barth's for example, or christ even (god forbid) vegas. maybe it's relief that things are dying back down or something else in the air, but harry is definitely feeling a little lighter and chattier than usual while passing through the streets of wyver. and if he sees anything mildly indecent--he might take a longer glance than is strictly polite.

at least he isn't stuffed into tiny shorts and meant to faux-seduce anyone in the middle of a beautiful evening like this--the moon reflecting rather nicely in everyone's widened, excited eyes. he stops for a drink or two, content enough on his own until he spots a familiar face. maybe he won't recognize harry in his full bespoke kingsman suit, but harry would recognize that mustache for certain. (and maybe he hasn't forgotten about the memorable shirt--if you could call it that--dorian had donned that day on the beach either).

he makes his way through the crowd, slipping in beside him and clearing his throat to get the other man's attention. maybe dorian won't even remember him at all, but there's no time like the present to reintroduce himself.]

Thank heavens we won't have to worry about any misplaced tan lines tonight.

[he'll offer a lopsided smirk once dorian gives him his full attention.]

[Harry isn't the only one who hasn't seen anything like this, but all of Dorian's previous witnessing (or partaking) has been behind closed doors. The experience was always dampened by a sinking feeling of the fact he shouldn't be there, the touches far too rushed to be anything of worth. The openness of the event? The fact these people aren't using the cover of the night? It's all very enlightening.

He's delighted. He has a second mug of ale in hand when he turns to face Harry, eyes already full of mirth widening when he recognizes that face.]

Thank heavens? I'm being deprived, not seeing how your skin has faired. [Without so much of a second thought, he's placing his free hand over his chest to feel the material of the suit.] But I suppose this is charming enough.

Edited (words.... i apologize for being so late) 2017-11-22 00:10 (UTC)

[maybe it's the atmosphere, or the fact that he's had two whiskeys--doubles--but the crowd surges and somehow pushes him in closer to dorian, just in time for that hand to come up and the sparkle in his eye. harry's not blind to an attractive man when he sees one, nor is he immune to that sort of flirtation.

his lips stretch apart in a close-lipped smile, a wide and genuine one with a flicker of suggestion behind his glasses.]

I do hate to disappoint. Perhaps I should rectify it another way.

[like letting a hand slide up to start loosening his tie. it doesn't take much to tuck it away in his pocket and unbutton the top three buttons of his neatly pressed white shirt, letting through a sliver of skin that's just indecent enough for a proper gentleman.

he raises an eyebrow at dorian, as if to ask enough?]

[Such things are terrible for Dorian's self restraint. He's usually quite good at maintaining a bored but pleasant expression, but the combination of the night air and Harry's action? He couldn't stop himself from biting his lip, nor doing a once-over, if he tried.]

I'll consider it rectified. [He sets his mug aside somewhere behind him, surely to be taken by another passerby. He doesn't care. He drags his hand up the lapel of his jacket, stopping just short of letting his thumb brush the skin of his neck.] You have the looks of quite the gentlemen, but I wonder... do you have the intentions of one, tonight?

[isn't that bold. harry represses the urge to shudder a bit at the way his thumb stops just before getting to any of his newly exposed skin. a light tease, perhaps to entice him for what comes next. it's not like harry's never done this sort of thing before--it's just that doing it because he wants to or feels the compulsion for it hasn't happened since the early nineties.

he's long since accepted anything more serious is precluded by his employment, but kingsman hasn't got any say on what's fleeting. and most assuredly they haven't got any say here--nor does harry find it a violation of his own moral codes to have a little bit of fun where he can afford it. he leans down dangerously closer, enough to smell whatever was in his mug and surely for dorian to catch a whiff of whiskey on his own breath.]

A gentleman is simply a patient wolf.

[he pauses, one hand thumbing at the inside of dorian's inner wrist and up along the arm he's got pressed against harry.]

What would you consider to be un-gentlemanly intentions?

That patient wolf losing it, biting. Re-purposing that tie elsewhere, forgetting the rest of that wonderful outfit of yours.

[Said with such ease, it almost surprises himself. Dorian doesn't show this for a second, though, and instead follows up with a smug grin. He rises to stand as tall as he can to meet Harry's height-- he can't possibly, but it won't put a deter his efforts. If it were any other night, anywhere else, he might have been terrified of putting on such a display. Now? He's exhilarated. He'd surely die if they parted now, changed their minds.

He draws that hand up, finally tracing his thumb over the line of Harry's neck before he runs his fingers into the back of his hair. All while he turns his head, so that he speaks into his ear with a low voice.]

Do we really need patience here, dear Harry?

[harry wouldn't dream of parting from him now--nor would he backing down from what must be a challenge when it's murmured so temptingly in his ear. there's an amused smirk tugging at his own lips too when dorian leans in, harry letting his gaze flick downward while he takes advantage of the view afforded by his height. it's a mutual thrill at letting this happen, something electric in the air and certainly from the proximity of dorian's body to his own.

harry hart isn't a shy man by any means--but he's also usually far more in control than to imagine running through each and every one of those scenarios in this very bar after they've been suggested.

the hand on dorian's arm shifts, cupping along his jaw and glancing against his cheek affectionately. his eyes are warm behind his glasses, voice low and smooth like the drinks he's indulged in tonight.]

I think perhaps you need a valuable lesson that a gentleman can do all of the above. I make no promises about patience tonight.

[his gaze slips down to dorian's lips, not exactly subtle but testing at the scant inches between them.]

[ there's tension thick in the air, coiling around his throat, threatening to choke the words out. his lies and half-truths have tangled up for almost two months now, forming a tight vice on his heart. the topic arises too frequently because harry's cleverer than anyone else, pointing out the gaps in eggsy's story yet trusting him, anyway. innocently discussing the way the dead rise here, without knowing what it means for himself. he doesn't have enough information to indict eggsy, certainly, only omissions that prevent his protege from reaching full credibility. see, eggsy can't exactly tell harry about officially becoming galahad without admitting aloud, to harry himself, that he died on a sunny day in the american south, staggering forward with a sheen of dust and blood on his kingsman suit, a church-full of corpses behind him.

and eggsy watching from his office.

instead, he said, you were compromised. and in fucking kentucky, at that. there wasn't time. arthur was a traitor, and merlin didn't know to trust me until I killed him. it all happened so fucking fast. we saved the world. today, he tells harry we need to talk. ]

You've been trusting me, Harry, and I haven't been honest.

[ he perches on the edge of the coffee table, facing harry on the sofa. his hands fist in the fabric of his trackies, a tell of his anxiety. despite his fidgeting, his features have settled into a somber, if jagged, expression. his entire body, normally soft in the safety of their shared home, has gone rigid. ]

But you've got to hear me out, okay? This time, I'm telling you everything. Swear down. I've just been trying to do the right thing.

[ he pauses, already losing a fraction of his confidence. a sharp inhale. he can't help but search harry's face for signs of anger and disappointment. ]

[harry has suspected for some time now that eggsy hasn't been entirely truthful with him about the exact details of what happened after their argument and his landing in kentucky. at first he'd thought perhaps the boy was still affected by the poor terms they left on--the fact that if it weren't for them being recognized for the abilities and taken here, they may have never seen each other again. and harry knows he was one of the first people to give eggsy the means to meet the potential that was so painfully begging to be realized. so it's not hard to think maybe he just needs time at first, to process all the what-ifs.

honestly it's not even inconceivable that it's taken them so long to even sit down and discuss it between the terrorist attack and the relocating, the adjustments to sharing a small living space. any time harry thinks to mention it himself there's something else that comes up, or even their small little tiffs over things that are insignificant in the long run aside from eggsy's safety. anything harry's ever said alluding to this matter however are just light teasing; he's got no reason to suspect anything really.

he trusts eggsy, just like the boy sits him down and tells him. he looks absolutely tortured--harry can see it written all over his face and his own brows knit into concern.]

Eggsy--

[harry doesn't look cross at all, only concerned. part of him wants to reach out and place a reassuring hand on eggsy's shoulder, squeeze gently. but he doesn't, just leaning in marginally from where he's sitting on the sofa, hands folded in his lap.]

Whatever it is, I want nothing more than to listen and let you do what you think is right. I'll hear you out.

[eggsy is loyal to a fault. anything eggsy was holding in must have been for good reason, the way harry sees it.]

Thanks, Harry.

[ which seems like a profoundly stupid thing to say, given his full knowledge of the circumstances. he does appreciate the understanding, at least — the instinct to trust rather than judge. he wonders if that will only make the blow worse, in the end. anger, at least, is better than sadness, disappointment, emptiness. ]

I'm sorry, I only — I thought it wasn't fair to tell you. [ said with an earnest undercurrent, completed by the way he instinctively leans forward. harry has to know he didn't lie thoughtlessly or with ill-intentions. ]

[ he remembers the feeling of james finally cracking around him, saying his friends looked at him like he was a ghost. dying is horrible on its own — eggsy recalls sinking to the ground in the vr, warmth spilling out of him and colouring the snow, panicked and helpless, a voice that must have been his own calling for his partner — but knowing you died without experiencing it, seeing the loss etched in a friend's face, surely that's an equal horror, and one people aren't meant to endure.

yet even if it's the right thing to spare harry, he can’t keep it up. on instinct, he places a hand on harry's knee, too tight to be comforting. he hopes to anchor himself and be reminded that harry isn't dead. not anymore. ]

It wasn't just that you were compromised on V-Day. [ he swallows. this is it. a few steps more. ] You went into the church, like I said, and Valentine used his device. Got you to — he made you kill everyone, Harry. [ he doesn't look away from harry, even though his eyes threaten to shutter closed. snatches of violence return to him. ] And then when you left, he was waiting for you outside with Gazelle and — [ his breath hitches. a single shot. a deafening crack. it's not that kind of movie. ] — he shot you in the head. Point-blank range.

[ and yet he still can't say it plainly, even if it's obvious, and he's getting bloody choked up. you died. he can only set the pieces for harry to conclude the outcome. ]

[harry inclines his head, leaning in too when eggsy does to let him know that he's close--he's right here and he's not going anywhere. whatever it is, his mind and body are completely attuned to just listen to him. let him say his piece and get whatever this is off his chest seeing as it's so clearly got him choked up and feeling guilty. it's not unlike his own guilt he'd carried around, spilling out in the bathroom before he'd left for kentucky. it might have felt a little better if they'd gotten to resolve it properly--there were things harry had said in anger that he doesn't regret, but he wishes he'd been able to extrapolate on.

he thinks only for a moment before setting his own hand atop eggsy's where it's clenched around his knee, meant to soothe away some tension. and then he listens. there's not much eggsy says really, but each of the statements land and they're positively deafening.

he realizes his first thought is only that he'd set eggsy up to watch him die that day. he'd left him on such a poor note and--what else had eggsy seen? a device--they'd guessed at something like that with the cards, but not the end result. not the thought that harry murdered an entire clergy. despite the hateful rhetoric he remembers watching on the plane, the knowledge of what these people preached and declared as their right to free speech--they didn't deserve to die in cold blood.

harry swallows hard, head pounding even as he forces himself not to flinch, though he does pull away both his hand and his proximity finally. he needs space--he needs a moment to try and compose himself with the reality of everything settling in.

he'd slaughtered all those people, and then he'd died without preventing anything that richmond valentine had planned. he couldn't save anyone--not lee, not eggsy, not those people, not the rest of the world. for once, the words are a struggle to find.]

You've been carrying that around--all this time?

[it's not accusatory, not angry. it's neutral and distanced because harry needs more time to absorb it and to let his own shock pass. but eventually he continues carefully.]

Every time we take those missions, we accept the risks. The chances that we won't return, that this one might be our last.

After all that, and the last thing you saw of me was--

[he cuts himself off, mouth thinning into a grim line as he looks down at his hands.]

I am sorry, Eggsy. For all of it.

[harry can't say he's going to miss much of wyver, limited amount of time he's spent here and all. the heat was enough to drive any sane englishman away, but throw in the general seediness and all the hubub about mysterious rituals and magic--he's quite confident olympia will do him just fine. that doesn't mean he's willing to pick sides just yet, not without more information as the last bits of panic have started to die down from this whole ordeal. but he can do it without having to worry about the temptations that the heat and something about the moonlight will bring and whatever other nonsense has overtaken the locals this month.

(look, the last time he was meant to come face-to-face with some sort of "magic ritual", meant to cure one of their compulsions, it was a gateway to an underground human trafficking ring equipped with enough scopolamine to enslave the entire bloody continent of australia. nothing otherworldly about that.)

maybe it's generational. god knows he's starting to feel the just off-footed enough and uncomfortable with the level of care and the instincts he has when eggsy pulls something mildly irresponsible. they're kingsman agents--their entire lives are surrounded with danger. granted, if the end of the world hadn't happen, harry would be needing to worry more about stray bullets and gunpowder as opposed to fire-breathing dragons and unfamiliar politics and surroundings. dirty bombs and underground spy rings were one thing, this was entirely another. perhaps it's that uncertainty and the painful illumination between their differences in age that has made this that much more difficult for harry to swallow at times.

but of course, it's eggsy who hears the rumours about an actual shaman bearing blessings and an opportunity for pairs to receive some sort of gift--an enhancement of skills. harry is skeptical how a necklace could help eggsy learn say one of over twelve languages harry speaks fluently, or for him to suddenly pick up the daunting notion of parkour in his spare time--but at this point it doesn't appear that it could actually harm them in any way, so what the hell? harry wouldn't call himself a non-believer he's just...a bit cynical, given the things he's seen over the years. he's wearing a double-breasted suit as usual, this one a rather pretty shade of dove gray he's fond of with a navy tie dotted with icy baby blue accents that look white from far away and it's been a few days since they were approached with a necklace looking like it was decorated with smaller versions of the teeth eggsy had pulled free from the dragon off the beach. they're just nearly to the foot of the mountain, and harry can vaguely make out a dais of some sort and a figure wearing something long and somber looking. before they can get within sight, harry puts a halting hand on eggsy's shoulder and leans in.]

Ah, we're nearly there. If this goes south, or is some sort of trap--I'll take the right side.

[what can he say--old habits die hard. if it sounds like a load of horse shit, it usually is.]

[ eggsy only has the one suit, seeing as he can't imagine a justification for owning multiple tailored looks on this steampunk planet unless they're bloody bulletproof. he wears it now, paired with one of harry's ties (yet another item of clothing that he hasn't invested in since gazelle sliced his gifted one in half).

idly, he wonders if harry prefers the right side or if he noticed the pink tint to eggsy's palm (all that remains of a burn from dragon wrangling). a spot of magic means what would have been a nasty mark is weeks along in healing — potentially born of carelessness in the kitchen rather than encounters with magical beasts. see, eggsy is both more open and wary of magic than harry (at least in his own opinion). time spent laughing over james' tricks juxtaposed with the knowledge that he's capable of killing curses have resolved eggsy's initial skepticism. he trains with james when he can now, prepared to privately reveal the extent of his skillset in exchange for necessary practice against the threats common on el nysa. notably, eggsy has failed to mention the dragon or the magical training to harry. there's no need for him to worry, after all. and eggsy's dangerous, ah, proclivities provide him with valuable skills and information. for instance, he heard about this ceremony while he was flitting through wyver's shady pubs. he did his research, too — wouldn't have dragged harry out otherwise.

it seems a bit naff now that they're here (with the necklace and shit), but it can't hurt to try it.

with a visible swallow, he holds harry's gaze. ]

Yeah. [ regardless of the reasoning for it, he accepts the plan and harry's paranoia. better safe than sorry. ] And if you just get cold feet?

[ teasing, naturally. ]

[(bit of both. he prefers the right side if he must, but he’s more than capable of making it work from either. and he had noticed the burn, but in lieu of trying to respect eggsy’s choices and admit that some of his more reckless escapades have lead to good intel, he’s decided not to outright mention it.)

maybe he is paranoid and overly distrusting of wyver in particular, but his instincts have saved his arse too many times to just let them go. really though, after all the experience he’s had in the past few days among the general populace and wondering what on earth had gotten into him too have him thinking this isn’t a trap, however silly and questionable it may be.

he would have happily nodded and let it be as they approached, but then eggsy makes a light tease at his own expense andbthat simply won’t do. harry inclines his head in eggsy’s direction with a wry smile and a lifted brow.]

Not very likely.

[he could leave it at that, but there’s something about the way eggsy lights up and silently basks in praise that didn’t come for most of his life that has hart pushing on and elaborating.]

There’s no one else in my life I’d rather be—mystically hitched to, if that’s the gist of this. Besides, I already know you’re willing to put up with my morning routine, and that’s a valuable commodity at my age.

[harry claps him good-naturedly on the shoulder before striding confidently forward, but stopping far enough away in case of trouble. before harry can say anything in greeting, the shaman gestures for them to come closer and hold up the necklace eggsy is currently holding.]

[november catchall - closed-ish]

byerly vorrutyer;

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rosalind lutece;

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dorian pavus;

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sorry this is like 100 years old

i will wait 1000 for this old man

bless u i luv this thread

what's sadder than sad

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eggsy unwin;

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