This story was translated into French by the wonderful EinalemButler :)

"Three more eggnogs and a rum on the rocks." Eggsy tosses his serving tray on to the bar with a clatter and swings himself onto a barstool to watch Harry work, resting his chin in his hand with a dopey smile on his face.

Harry tuts at the order as he reaches for the bottles. "Tristan's already decided to drink it straight?"

"It's an hour later than last time."

"I suppose," Harry pours out his homemade eggnog from its unlabeled bottle and meets Eggsy's gaze. "You know, you don't have to work tonight if you'd rather not."

"We've been over this, Harry," Eggsy smiles, and Harry's eyes flicker to his lips. "I want to. It's a Christmas tradition now, it is. Besides, this fine arse is bringing in business." He winks for effect and Harry sighs in affectionate disapproval, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. It's a blatant falsehood, since the pub is technically closed and most everyone in it has known Eggsy since he was in diapers, but Harry's never failed to play along with the joke.

Their traditional Christmas Eve party, alternatively pronounced 'Lee Unwin's annual gathering of strays,' has been held in Harry's pub, Kingsman, since its inception in the 80's (Harry, of course, being one of the strays). This was back before any of them had families and Harry was still indignant enough to protest Lee and co.'s systematic invasion of his lonely but still open pub on Christmas Eve. Or so Eggsy's been told - by the time he was old enough to remember, Harry had become their somewhat resigned, amenable host. And by the time Eggsy was old enough to wait tables, he was arse-over-tits in love with their snarktastic gentleman bartender.

But that's old news now. While the arse-over-tits part is still painfully accurate, since leaving for uni he's been reduced to the Christmas Eve party and the odd visit to enjoy moments like these, with Harry being kind and witty and immune to Eggsy's increasingly obvious advances.

"A gentleman never boasts." Harry's tone barely passes for scolding.

Eggsy hums in agreement. "No, but they've got good enough business sense to know when tight pants are called for."

Harry's composure cracks, marking the return of his barely restrained impropriety, in the form of him leaning slightly closer with a gleam in his eye.

"Cheeky tart. Am I not good enough to lure customers anymore?"

"You've got a world class arse and you know it or you wouldn't hide it behind the bar. Wasn't this whole thing started by the members of your fan club?"

"No," Harry replies primly, "I managed to disband the official fan club after I left university."

Eggsy laughs and Harry doesn't, which makes him stop laughing. "Shut up. Really?"

Harry seems to sense he's made some colossal misstep and is demur in his reply, "Well, it wasn't of any great size, and it didn't so much disband as move on to other upperclassmen."

"In that case no one will stop me from declaring myself the new president. I'm gonna make t-shirts and sell them at the door. Can probably quit school off the profits."

Before Harry can voice the thoughts behind his vaguely alarmed expression, the first few lines of another John Denver song ring through the eaves in a thickening Scottish baroque. Eggsy winces at Merlin's weakening grasp on tone.

"You might want to cut Merlin off."

"Quite. One of these is for him?" Eggsy nods and Harry takes out another unlabeled bottle of eggnog marked with a little innocuous piece of green tape.

"You came prepared this year."

"There are only so many times I can hear Take Me Home, Country Roads sung in Merlin's drunken register," Harry agrees wryly, then, his voice taking on a plying edge, "I do wish you'd sing."

"Hell no. I sing and no one will shut up about it for the rest of the decade."

"Because you have such a lovely voice." Harry gives him that damn look, the one where his brown eyes go all big and watery and hopeful and his eyelashes bat, and Eggsy extends a finger at him accusingly.

"That's not fair."

"What isn't?" Harry asks, but there's a smile ruining his perfectly innocent expression. "Complimenting your marvelous vocal range?"

"You know what." Eggsy lets out an exaggerated sigh. "I'll think about it. No promises."

Harry's finished the drinks and has them all set up on the tray, but Eggsy's still at the bar and Harry doesn't seem like he plans on telling him to get lost. He starts drying a glass, the rolled up white sleeves of his button-down shirt giving Eggsy a nice view of his forearms as he works.

Harry's right fit for a bartender, Eggsy reflects for what is probably the hundred thousandth time over the course of seven years. Always stunning but somewhat careless about it, Harry has somehow gotten lovelier to look at over time - though that may have been Eggsy's bias speaking. He's tall but only imposing if he wants to be and broad but still manages to look soft. Now the growing lines of silver in his hair gleam in the light whenever he moves, his eyes a dark and intelligent yet warmhearted brown, his lips marvelously inviting whether speaking or sealed.

After a little too much of that Eggsy rips his gaze away and sets it safely on the TV. And then he laughs.

"Pretty Woman? Really?"

"It's Christmas Eve. People want to see happy things."

"You know Harry, I once heard that they make movies specifically for Christmas."

"Yes, about giving up on your dreams and how differences are only appreciated if useful. There are very few classic Christmas films that reflect modern values."

"Is that so?" Eggsy asks, smiling possibly more dopishly than ever. "What about Home Alone?"

"In which a neglected child is abandoned to the mercy of two men implied to be murderous. Very festive."

"A Christmas Carol?"

"The two-thousand nine version? Terrifying. And not a vast improvement from the others."

"The Santa Clause?"

"Arguably more terrifying. Losing control of your appearance, imagine it."

"Sure, sure. You know what I think?"

"I have a feeling you'll tell me either way."

"I think that you're just a big romantic with appalling film taste who watches romcoms for fun."

Harry makes a sound between derision and agreement. "Preposterous - absolutely ridiculous. I'll have you jailed for slander."

"Have to catch me first."

Eggsy's maybe (absolutely) baiting him. He moves a little slowly in reaching for the drink tray - not that he needs to, since Harry's lightning fast and catches Eggsy's arm before his fingers are anywhere near the metal. The move brings him so close Eggsy can taste his aftershave, and he curses the wide oak bar between them while his vision is filled with Harry's dangerous smirk.

"You've yet to make it difficult, darling."

For the thousandth time in his life Eggsy thinks this is it, he's finally got Harry's attention - and then Harry moves back, the moment corralled and contained. "Don't you have drinks to deliver?" he asks, smiling tightly.

Eggsy holds back a sigh and lifts the tray.

"I'll get you sometime," he promises. He's not referring to an escape, but Harry doesn't need to know that. Eggsy comforts himself by deciding Harry looked just a bit remorseful for sending him off.

"I love him," Eggsy says, dropping Merlin's drink on the table and taking the singing Scot's chair beside Roxy.

Roxy doesn't ask who or even think about her answer. "I know. Everyone knows. Harry even knows."

"Roxy," Eggsy whinges.

Roxy drops her chin into her hand and bats wide, doey eyes at him. "Harry, I have the orders. Make them for me, pretty please?"

"I'm a waiter! I have to wait on people!"

Roxy's eyes narrow and her eyebrows drop. "The only waiting you do is on him while you watch him make the drinks. Every single time." She reclines in her chair, giving her less than half-full glass a pointed look. "And you're not a waiter, actually, you're a uni student living off a full scholarship who volunteered to work on Christmas Eve."

"It's tradition," Eggsy mutters, though it's only halfway to a denial. Roxy lets him stew in that while Merlin belts out the second chorus. He sees the moment for the opportunity to agree with her that it is and slumps in his chair, sighing in defeat. "If Harry knows then I guess it really is hopeless."

"Harry thinks you're playing with him."

Eggsy watches her take another swig of her eggnog, nonchalant and lacking any hint of possible sarcastic intent, before he makes any attempt at a reply.

"What? Why would he - I would never dream of - why?!"

Roxy sets down her glass and answers like she's discussed this before. "You're half his age; he's friends with your parents; you've been hitting on him since you were seventeen."

"Because I've been in love with him since I was seventeen."

She shrugs. "Now it's part of the tradition. He's not going to take a chance on his best friend's son when nothing's changed in your relationship for six years."

Roxy takes no notice of his increasingly horrified stare, because she's got ice for blood and also because she knows she's right, damn her. Eggsy hasn't expected to succeed for years, and so he hasn't tried for years. He's stuck with silly, dismissible overtures out of fear that what they have will come crashing down on his head.

But what the hell else is he supposed to do? With how thoroughly he's set himself up for failure, there's no way Harry will take him seriously if he just asks him to dinner. Marginal increases in the status quo are what got him here in the first place, after all. And it's not like that would have gone over well when he started, being seventeen as he was.

It's a hopeless mess. He thunks his head down on the table and Roxy pats his shoulder in a barely passable play at comfort.

Although, he thinks as the Scottish John Denver trails off and the quiet notes of Pretty Woman murmur between the sounds of the party, Harry played My Fair Lady last year and Say Anything the year before, and more besides, because he's a diehard romantic with a soft spot for grand gestures.

"Rox, be honest," he asks, popping his head back up. "Do you think there's even a remote possibility that if something changes he'd take that chance?"

Roxy turns the napkin holder so it reflects, in somewhat distorted picture, Harry's wistful contemplation of the back of Eggsy's head.

"Pretty sure."

He glances back and Harry covertly redirects his attention to James, who'd seated himself at the bar at some point. By god, Eggsy isn't leaving another Christmas party without being absolutely certain that man isn't interested.

"Thanks Rox," he says quickly, pushing himself to his feet before he can think better of his resolve and striding off towards the karaoke stand.

"Harry is that way!" Roxy calls too late, indicating the opposite direction.

"Any luck?" Merlin asks, dropping into the vacated seat.

"Honestly? No idea."

"Let's hope, yeah?" Lee adds, leaning his chair backwards to hang precariously between the tables and into their conversation. "I've got ten quid riding on tonight."

"Third year running," Merlin supplies, and Roxy hums in agreement.

"Lee is ever the optimist."

"At least that boy finally brought my refill." Merlin reaches for his full glass of Eggnog, but Roxy, one of many who are tired of hearing him sing no matter how good he might be sober, slaps her hand over the top.

"Hey, no way. You've had enough."

Nonplussed, Merlin uses the distraction to swipe hers.

"I'm up again in ten minutes," he crows, and empties the glass.

It doesn't hit Eggsy until he's standing on the little collapsible stage just how ridiculously besotted he's about to look (though that's a fair estimation of his feelings) or that it's, to be a smidge dramatic, his one and only shot at Harry Hart, eighth wonder of the world and probable love of his life.

Of course, by the time he remembers to be nervous the song has already started to play.

"I don't want a lot for Christmas..." A few encouraging hoots and cheers come up from his family and friends, but Harry's head snaps up from the bar, surprise clear on his face, and the rush of affection in Eggsy's chest is all he needs. Embarrassingly and with great conviction, Eggsy throws himself into his grand gesture without a backward glance.

Even if it comes to nothing Eggsy decides it was worth it, because Harry looks frozen to the spot as Eggsy points to him and declares "All I want for Christmas is you."

It's late enough that everyone's at least buzzed, so he's only mildly surprised that the people near him start dancing as the song picks up. He issurprised that the dancing is catchy, spreading so much that the people not dancing look weirder than the ones dancing, and on the end of the second chorus he throws out his hand and beckons Harry to join him.

He's never seen Harry look quite so startled as when he shakes his head. There's a hint of incredulity haunting his eyes, like he might still think it's a joke, and that's unacceptable, so Eggsy leaps off the stage and heads for him.

He can almost touch the bar when he reaches the end of the mic cord.

He figures that's about as poetic as they're going to get - Eggsy's gone as far as he can, it's up to Harry to take the last few steps. He raises his eyebrows and holds out his hand again.

Harry might be blushing. It's grand, except that he makes no move to leave the safety of the bar. Eggsy throws his arms out and grins as he sings "I'm just gonna keep on waiting,"

Daisy bumps into the back of his legs, bouncing in some tiny approximation of dancing, and he turns to twirl her gleeful childish self for a moment. She spins off to (or is perhaps encouraged towards) Roxy and Eggsy fully intends to turn back.

Except he's tangled in the damn mic cord and "please bring my baby to me," gains a new level of nervous warbling.

It was a good run, he thinks in the seconds he teeters on the edge of falling over, which will no doubt rip out the mic cord and prematurely end his ill-fated attempt at romance.

But he doesn't actually tip - instead he hits something warm and solid and bracing hands settle on his arms for good measure, and he finds himself grinning brighter than the Rockefeller Christmas Tree up at Harry.

He frees himself and turns in Harry's arms, trying to keep his breathlessness from ruining the song. Harry's looking down at him with a warm sort of wonder that makes hope flare to life in Eggsy's chest. They're so close that every single lyric is now sung only to him. Even Eggsy can hear what it does to his voice, the shift in his tone and the softening of his notes. He draws near, encouraging Harry to sway to the festive beat, boldly allowing his hand to settle on Harry's shoulder as he does. "This is all I'm asking for."

He's glad for the magical power of music to be thoughtlessly memorized, because the last lyric he's conscious of singing is: "I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know."

He had been planning to blow the final note, get a few laughs, then corner Harry by the bathrooms and kiss the living daylights out of him, but now he can't find a good reason to wait that long.

Whoever caught the mic when he tossed it over his shoulder is the Christmas party MVP, but he's got no idea who does because before it would have hit the floor his lips meet Harry's.

The pre-recorded backup singers take away the high note while he twines his hands into Harry's impeccable hair, Harry's arms sliding around him to draw him close and deepen the kiss.

He figures he must be glowing he's so warm, and Harry definitely tastes of fresh Guinness, and the only thing that makes them break off is the thunderous round of applause that goes up around the room far too soon for his liking.

Neither let go as they laugh, because of course, what did they expect, really. Their eyes are bright with joy while the whistles and cheers die down, gentle and wordless while they revel in the moment.

"Said I might sing," Eggsy murmurs eventually, and Harry laughs again.

"I believe you may have underestimated the length of time people will remember it."