They send letters, of course, as frequently as the chaos on the warfront allows. Often Eggsy will send him parts of a song, on paper worn thin and ragged with mud and grime and blood.

It’s a new one Eggsy had begun before he left; it’s a wonder he’s still trying to finish. It has Harry balancing between the edge of soft, warm-hearted love and a deep, despairing gulf.

Harry traces each carefully inked note, the melody ringing loud and clear in his mind, but he won’t ever be able to bring himself to play the song on that dusty grand piano.

He has a horribly selfish wish. There may be hundreds and thousands of men out there dying for his country, but all he wants is for Eggsy come home to him: they’ll sit side by side at the piano as Eggsy walks him through the song, adding embellishments left and right while Harry reverently follows each stroke on the staff.

He won’t play this song, not until Eggsy does first.

(But Harry knows the story of this song, intimately, dearly; he doesn’t need to hear it to know how it will end.)