presumptions, nyx.
He was never known for his prowess in education, intrinsic to someone’s who’s been held back twice. Not a soul approached him for tips on how to solve this problem or find that damned x, and he supposes he’s okay with that—although there are times when he finds himself looking longingly at the class nerd/loser and wonders, just for one day, what it would be like to be assured that, yes, there was a life after high school.
So it comes as no shock that as soon as he hears about this weapons training class, he can’t help the knowing upward twitch that dances on the corner of his lip. (And try as he might, he can’t eradicate the confidence that comes with it.)
Try as he might, he can’t help but feel like he can do anything, and that involves scoring that dark chick with the tight body in the corner.
Eggsy saunters over to the station she’s in: throwing knives, his favourite. He stands confidently beside her, picking up a knife by its blunt end whilst running his finger along its silver edge—
—all with a head tilt and an obvious leer.
He weighs the knife in his hands, watches it dance as he throws it up and catches it.
“I’m Eggsy,” he states as he drags the knife back, aims it at the bullseye and flings his wrist after a silent, quick prayer to a God he doesn’t believe is really there.
His smirk amplifies when he hears the thwack! and confirms that he’s hit the bullseye. He angles his body to face her and sticks his hand out for a handshake.
“Pleasure.”