Chapter Text
It took an unnecessary amount of effort, but Tommy hauled the two paint cans he’d bought all the way from his car to Alfie’s door on day 27, a paintbrush wedged between his teeth.
He had not explicitly asked Alfie to help him yet—the back of his neck broke out into a sweat whenever he thought about it—so this was the direction he decided on.
Alfie opened up, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “Oh,” the scene wasn’t so much a surprise as was the fact that Tommy was awake at this hour. A part of Alfie had been awaiting the visit. They’d exchanged a few more messages, but he wanted to leave Tommy the space to show up—glad his reasoning had held true.
“Eye dint nof—ff bl—ck on—” Alfie plucked the brush from Tommy’s mouth. “I—I couldn’t choose between the—” he looked at the can label on his right, “the elephant gray or the—the burlap tan .”
-
Alfie had suggested they discuss the colors over some morning tea and biscuits, to come to a consensus on something that was not in the neutrals category.
Tommy sketched out his vision on a scrap piece of paper—details pertaining to where he’d place his new bookshelves, the mini globe he’d purchased at the corner store, and his statuette of a black Frisian.
“Do you think striped lamp shades will match this palette?” He’d read up a bit on interior design online. Everyone seemed to be saying that stripes were very outdated, but he’d bought them beforehand—final sale.
“Yes, it’ll work.” Stripes were a very versatile pattern, Alfie explained, it was easy to slot them into any environment. He would later learn that the ones Tommy had chosen were quite hideous—navy with some kind of green—but he resolved the problem by suggesting that they looked best in the furthest corner of the room.
It was a productive morning overall. Tommy decided he was satisfied with the plan before the clock had reached 11. “Well, I think I’ll start tomorrow then.” he looked to Alfie, folding the paper and slipping it into his pocket.
“Alright.” Alfie nodded. Tommy nodded back. Alfie nodded again. “I mean I could he—”
“Would you want to he—”
Their sentences ran into one another, a small laugh escaping Tommy. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”
On his way out, Tommy picked up the jar of sand and shells that hadn’t moved from Alfie’s table since Christmas. He smiled to himself, then turned to Alfie with an expression that suggested he’d just been caught stealing. “I think it’ll look nice on my nightstand,” he clarified sheepishly, and Alfie simply bit his lip.
-
Rather than Alfie leave after their Saturday meetings, they would now devour the food, slurp down their drinks and continue on the renovations. With two pairs of hands painting, wrenching and drilling, the work was accomplished fairly quickly. But with each room they finished, Tommy found something new to adjust—he’d grown very fond of the whole process. They hopped from place to place, readjusting frames and hmphing together over artistic choices. Tommy, as it turned out, was actually quite picky.
All decorations had to be arranged in a certain way, positioned perfectly so that they matched the setting of the angle you were looking at them from—whatever that possibly meant. Tables had to stand exactly in the center of the rugs beneath them, books lined in alphabetical order and they were to use 3 layers of paint—no more, no less. When Alfie asked Tommy where he’d acquired all of this knowledge about aesthetics, it turned out that ‘a bit’ of reading on interior design had in fact been countless, sleepless nights of eyes glued to a screen describing the importance of ‘balanced heights in a compact space.’
“It’s not as crazy as it sounds,” Tommy had dug himself into a hole, he realized, desperately trying to climb back out, “it’s supposed to cleanse your soul.” he winced—quite possibly the least convincing thing he could have said. But Alfie nodded along enthusiastically, trying to calm the panic swimming around in Tommy’s eyes. “Then I might just try leaving my curtains only two-thirds of the way open as well.”
The living room had become a pale shade of yellow, mimicking the sunshine—for the plants, Tommy reasoned. Both bathrooms were now a powder blue, Tommy’s room a blend of pastel greens. Only the walls in the kitchen were allowed to adopt the elephant gray .
Color popped everywhere—clearly a home now, rather than some dreary enclosure.
“A bit overwhelming,” Tommy remarked, stepping back from the last patch of white he’d finished covering. “In a good way, though” he reassured, noticing that a few droplets of paint had splattered across the bridge of Alfie’s nose. He swiped them away with his finger, wiping the rest off onto a rag.
Alfie stiffened. Physical contact, from Tommy Shelby.
He should’ve proposed renovations sooner.
-
It was a short winter that year. By mid-February the snow had all but disappeared and the wind blew warmly in the afternoons.
“You could probably start drafting your garden soon, if you’re still planning on doing that.” Alfie paused his hammering to wipe a few beads of sweat off his forehead. “Still too early to plant, though.”
Tommy was squatted beside him, studying the instruction manual for a new kitchen table. “Hm? Oh, right, the garden.” he switched his attention to Alfie. “I’d still like to, yes, but there’s only grass out there.” he gestured towards the sliding doors leading into the backyard.
“It’s only a matter of plowing, Tommy. I’ve got all the tools.”
“Right, of course.” but the embarrassment he felt for not realizing it was just a matter of plowing was outweighed by relief for the fact that he wouldn’t have to nag Alfie for help on another thing—the offer was hanging in the air between them, waiting to be snatched up.
-
Tommy wanted to explore Alfie’s garden for ideas—as someone foreign to the activity, he wasn’t entirely sure what he could grow, though he knew bananas and pineapples were clearly out of the question.
They walked through the rows of dirt, Alfie pointing to imaginary patches of zucchinis, carrots, and cucumbers. Labels from last year's crop still stuck out of the ground, slowly withering away. The flower beds had their own special space, a few meters away from the vegetables. Alfie listed off fancy names of plants too quickly for Tommy to make any sense of the words, but Alfie was glowing, hands gesturing animatedly. It would be too cruel to interrupt—Tommy could ask for clarification at another time.
His mind drifted off when they reached the invisible pagonies—or maybe they were peonies—becoming engrossed with Alfie’s body language instead.
Alfie appreciated the tiny details of life. Tommy finally succeeded in pinpointing the reason he was so drawn to him, because it was quite the opposite of Tommy’s own tendencies. Alfie celebrated the green of a leaf, the crunch of a bread’s crust, a funnily shaped cloud—and it was a soothing form of love. It was the type of love Tommy wanted.
-
“So, have you found anything you like?”
They were standing beneath Alfie’s magnolia. It hadn’t started to bloom yet, but the buds were swelling and the pink flowers would emerge soon. Tommy ran his finger along one of the branches, looking around at their surroundings. He caught Alfie’s eyes and smiled softly. “Yeah—yeah I think I have.”
“Well, make sure to note them down somewhere when you get back home. We can shop for seeds later, I can even dig up some of the bulbs I have here to transfer them over to you.” Tommy was staring at him oddly, fixated on some point on Alfie’s forehead, his pupils dilated. “Tommy….mate.” It was a bit unsettling. Alfie started racking his brain for an explanation—wasn’t sudden speechlessness the sign of a stroke?
“I don’t really like touching, Alfie.” Tommy finally spoke, wringing his hands.
Alfie nodded along, though still thoroughly confused. He wasn’t touching Tommy, they were standing a few inches apart and he hadn’t made any movements suggesting he planned on it. “I know you don’t, Tommy.”
“Right,” he idled for a moment longer, bit his lip, sucked in a breath and leaned in.
Alfie initially thought that it was a headbutt, or that he was fainting—anything but the fact that Tommy was kissing him.
They were kissing , Tommy’s lips pressed against his, tongue teasing at the corners of his mouth. He could hear Tommy’s breaths deepening, his own eyelids quivering. He opened his eyes once, quickly, to make sure it was real, and dove back in. The birds had started chirping louder. Cheering us on , Alfie thought, and reached up to cup Tommy’s cheek.
Touch , the word still rang an alarm in his head. He jerked it away quickly—hoping the decision hadn’t shattered the moment, but Tommy continued kissing, patted around Alfie’s waist to find his wrist and brought the hand back up to his face, his own slipping behind Alfie’s neck to pull him in closer, chests pressed against one another.
It was Alfie who broke it off first, forced to gasp for air, though his hand remained in the same spot, thumb rubbing against Tommy’s cheekbone, his lips slightly puffy and eyes sparkling.
‘So,” Tommy brushed Alfie’s hair back, “did you kiss the old folks like that too?”