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Paint With all the Colours of the Wind

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A world without colour is an impossible conception. It would be a world of mental darkness, of frustration, and no other gifts of civilization could, in any wise, compensate us for the loss of chromatic values. We should go mad in a colourless world. - ANONYMOUS, The Chemist, vol. 20.


“Oi, you little shit, you stole my fucking car,” Dean’s goon shouts at him, and it takes all of Eggsy’s restraint not to fire back, ‘serves you fucking right for painting it this awful colour,’ ‘cause the goon’s an arsehole of the highest kind, but the colour ain’t his fault. The goon’s never met his soulmate. He figures the car is grey, like everything else in his world is.

It’s always been bright fucking yellow to Eggsy.


Eggsy can remember the day he first saw colours. He was seven, and his mum was crying, and there was a man in a suit talking to her and his eyes were brown.

He hadn’t known the name for the colour then. Had learned those later, as a teen in PE, when his health teacher had explained what the colours meant, what it meant to see colours. What a soulmate was.

But Eggsy’d been seven, and he’d known none of that. All he’d known was that was the first colour he’d ever seen, that brown, and the eyes had been so kind when the man had given him the medal with the pink and purple ribbon. And then he’d left, and Eggsy had been alone with his crying mum, and a whole new world of things he had no name for.

He didn't even catch the man’s name.


“What’d do ya figure it’ll be like to see colours?” The bloke Eggsy’s been fooling around with for ‘bout a month asks him once. They’re nineteen, and they’re on the roof of Eggsy’s place, lazily passing a toke between them. His name is Mike, and he’s a nice bloke, who figures he might go to uni to be a banker. Eggsy likes him a lot.

“Dunno,” Eggsy lies, staring up at the clear blue of the sky, and slowly breathes out smoke.

He enrols in the marines the next day. His mother’s face as she cries and pleads at him when he comes back to visit her from basic is red from crying, and blotchy.

He doesn’t go back.


He’s twenty-four, angry and more than a little confused the next time he sees that particular shade of brown again, leaning up against the wall of the police station in a posh suit. It jars him, to see this man again, his soulmate, standing there in a suit worth more than probably the combined total of everything Eggsy owns.

Of course he’d be some posh git.

And then said posh git, this soulmate of his, tells him he got him released, and that he knew his father, and then he walks away like he knows Eggsy will follow.

He does. At least this time, he got a name. Harry Hart.

It’s a good name, even if he is a posh git.


He tries to get him to go, when Dean’s goons corner them in the bar. For all that he’s a posh git who clearly disproves of Eggsy’s choices in life, what’s coming ain’t got anything to do with him, and Eggsy’s ain't gonna let anyone get hurt ‘cause of him, soulmate or not. And then Harry gets up to go, and Eggsy tells himself it ain’t disappointment he feels as he stares at Harry’s back, shoulders moving under the black of his posh suit.

“Manners maketh man,” Harry says, as he locks the door, and turns around, and then what happens.

Well it happens.

By the time Harry steps over the unconscious bodies of Dean’s goons, sits down and drains the last of the dark brown ale from his glass, Eggsy’s in love.


He doesn’t mention it. Spy shite aside, Eggsy lives in the real world, the one where blokes like Harry ain’t soulmates to people like him. When he was a teenager, and he’d realized what the fact he’d been able to see colours for so long meant, he’d done his research on the subject.

This soulmate thing ain’t one hundred precent puppies and roses is what Eggsy’d found. ‘Bout twenty percent of the population’s got a soulmate who in turn has got someone else as a soulmate, and it’s just as thorny as it sounds. Sometimes people meet their soulmate before their first soulmate dies and sometimes people just don’t match up, and spend the rest of their lives knowing they’ve got a soulmate that don’t belong to them.

Eggsy didn’t need no textbook to tell him life ain’t no fairytale.

The fact that Harry is Eggsy’s soulmate don’t mean the reverse is true, is what he’s trying to say, and he ain’t going to act like it is.

Still, he can’t help but notice things, keep them and secret them away. The navy of Harry’s suit, and how well it hugs his figure. The forrest green of his tie and the gold clasps on his suspenders when Harry checks on him and the training. The pink of Harry’s lips and what a smile looks like on them.

The red of Harry’s robe as he lays prone in the hospital wing, vulnerable in a way that hurts Eggsy’s heart. Harry seems so strong, so larger than life, and to see him laying there makes Eggsy ache for all the reasons that he’s been trying to hard to ignore.

Merlin’s sweater, when he comes and finds Eggsy at Harry’s bedside has olive patches on it. He lets him stay, and doesn’t say a word.

Eggsy figures if his gratitude had a colour, it’d be the brown of Harry’s eyes when he finally wakes.


Eggsy wants to be a Kingsman, but Eggsy also knows that JB’s fur is the colour of coffee, and that his tongue when he licks his face is pink.

Eggsy doesn’t shoot the dog.

When Harry reveals that it was a blank, his cheeks are flushed red and Eggsy’s sorry for disappointing him, but he still ain’t sorry for not shooting the dog.

You don’t hurt the ones you love.


“No one but your dog at home for you?” Eggsy remembers asking, as he’d stared at the pink of Harry’s lips out of the side of his eyes as he learned to pour a gentleman’s martini, and tried for casual. He'd hadn’t asked if Harry’d met his soulmate - no one who can’t see colour coordinates their clothes as well as Harry did. Harry’d clearly met his soulmate.

Still don’t mean it was Eggsy though.

“There are some scenarios where it is...not appropriate to be with one’s other half,” is what Harry had ended up saying, a far away look in those brown eyes of his, and Eggsy figured he could read behind the lines there.

He’d imagined there was probably some woman, of an appropriate social class who lived in a little country village with plenty of green trees. She’d probably had gold hair and blue eyes and Harry stayed away from her ‘cause it was dangerous to be a spy, and he didn’t want her to get hurt. And Eggsy remembers he didn’t even hate her, this unknown woman who had Harry’s heart, ‘cause whoever she was she ain’t had Harry, and Eggsy felt for her, staring at those green trees and not knowing why.

Eggsy remembers Harry’s tongue had been pink when he’d licked a drop of martini off his lips, and that there’d been fond approval in those brown eyes when he’d looked at Eggsy. It had taken everything Eggsy’d had not to throw himself at Harry then.

Sitting at Harry’s laptop alone in his office, watching the feed from Harry’s glasses and the sheer chaos of colours as the world implodes into violence, he thinks that regret might be clear, like the tears he can feel gathering at the corner of his eyes.

Something horrible is going to happen, Eggsy knows.

And then it does.


Harry’s blood, spurting from his head after Valentine shoots him is red, red, red right up until it’s not.

Then it’s grey, just like everything else.

Eggsy’s had colours since he was seven, but he never got to have his soulmate. Now he has neither.

Heartbreak, he knows now, is grey.

He can take or leave the colours, he thinks, as his chest aches and aches and aches with the magnitude of what he’s lost.

He just wants Harry back.


It takes him five minutes to get from Harry’s place to the shop. Eggsy knows because he was looking at his watch the whole time, counting the seconds of grey.

There was one minutes and thirty seven seconds of it.

“I’d rather be with Harry, thanks,” Eggsy says, when Arthur, traitorous Arthur who sent Harry to die, offers him a place on the lifeboat of the damned, and means it entirely.

Arthur’s eyes are green, green, green as he chokes and gasps and dies.

Eggsy’s call to Merlin encompasses only the words, “Harry’s alive.”

And then Eggsy goes and saves the world.

Valentine’s blood, when he dies, is satisfyingly red.


Staring down at Harry in a Kentucky hospital, Eggsy notes his skin is pale but pink with life.

He thinks that might be his new favourite colour.

And then, after a few hours Harry opens those brown eyes of his and says, voice slow from the drugs, but still so precious to hear, “Did you know, I am very fond of the particular shade of blue that is your eyes?”

And then, before Eggsy can reply, Harry continues with, “It was the first colour I ever saw,” looking right at Eggsy, and Eggsy’s heart stutters as his meaning hits, and he blurts out without elegance, thinking of their conversation over martini’s, “You were talking ‘bout me.”

“You were seven,” Harry says severely, those brown eyes of his begging for Eggsy to understand why he did what he did, “I am no monster.”

“No,” Eggsy says slowly, thinking of Harry, who spent seventeen years alone with colours away from Eggsy, let Eggsy grow up into his own man without any influence from him, because Harry’s a good man, a true gentleman. And then, with a daring he’d never have shown before, Eggsy lays his hand on the bed, palm up, and offers it to Harry, as he says, heart fluttering with something he thinks might be happiness, “But I ain’t seven no more.”

“No,” Harry says, a smile beginning to creep onto those pink lips of his, as he puts his hand in Eggsy’s, “you are not.”

And so Eggsy sits in a Kentucky hospital, and feels the warmth of his soulmates hand in his, and together they watch the bleeding oranges and yellows as the sun rises into a blue sky.

Eggsy knows it'll be a good day.