Chapter Text
In truth, Alfie did not have to do much searching for his destiny, because Tommy Shelby moved into the home next to his on a Tuesday.
It had been previously occupied by an older couple—one that Alfie often tended to and shared evening teas with—but they had died and the house had been abandoned, eventually taken over by the bank. Alfie was left with a void in his schedule and a tear in his heart.
He had intended to introduce himself to the new neighbor more formally, perhaps bake a fresh loaf of bread to offer as a housewarming gift—Alfie was famous for his bread in circles of friends—but they ran into one another on the lawn one afternoon before he had the chance.
“Hi neighbor!” they were looking right at one another, standing on opposite sides of the sidewalk, but it seemed he’d still managed to startle him. The man walked over slowly.
“I’m Alfie Solomons.” Alfie extended his arm out, the handshake was weak.
“Tommy Shelby.” Tommy Shelby was quite lanky—only a bit of muscle hiding under his collared shirt. There were dark hollows under his eyes and a scar on his left cheek, but the cheekbones were incredibly defined. His eyes enchantingly blue. He was very pretty, in a very sad way.
“Well, welcome to the neighborhood, I’m sure you’ll grow to love it.” He received a soft thank you and an immediate goodbye .
-
Tommy had not been wearing a ring on his finger, Alfie had noticed. There was only one car parked in the driveway and a single, potted plant sitting on his windowsill, the leaves wilted. Tommy lived alone. Alfie found a new neighbor to care for.
He was apprehensive to accept the gifts at first—handfuls of peaches from the tree in Alfie’s backyard, steaming baskets of thick-crusted rolls—but he always did. Even began opening the door in advance, when he saw through his window that Alfie was coming over.
It was slowly becoming a friendship, Alfie liked to think. The conversations were short and often vague, but they lasted incrementally longer. Tommy had started complimenting certain details of the food Alfie brought the few days before. Alfie even tugged half a smile out of Tommy with a joke about horse racing once—it was an interest, he learned, they both shared.
And really, if Alfie was being honest, baking and picking and cooking was much easier once he knew he could look at Tommy again.
-
It happened the Saturday morning that they were both outside. Tommy had left his home to pick up the mail, Alfie was on the sidewalk with a dish in his hand. This time it was blackberry cobbler—not his own blackberries, but he supposed Tommy would forgive him.
“You know, I feel foolish not being able to reciprocate with any of my own recipes, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I tell you I’d burn my house down if I tried.” It was a full smile this time, the scent of sugary fruit lightening Tommy’s expression.
Perhaps that was what made Alfie so giddy, but his head grew momentarily fuzzy and he grasped onto Tommy’s arm, squeezing gently. “You don’t have to be guilty, it keeps me occupied anyway.”
Tommy took a step back abruptly, stiffening. “I don’t like being touched much.” His eyes were apologetic.
“Right, mate, yeah, of course.” Alfie sunk his hands deep into his pockets sheepishly. He’d overstepped an inappropriate boundary, clouds of red shrouding his forehead and cheeks. “Right, well..I hope the cobbler isn’t burnt.” and he hurried back home before Tommy could respond.
-
Alfie did not bring anything over the following week, the thin stack of recipes that he had planned out on his kitchen counter laying untouched. Out of his own excitement and stupid, little crush, he had offended Tommy. Certain self-restraints had to be put in place.
It wasn’t a torturous week per say, but it was lonely. Because Alfie had friends, yes, but they all lived on the other side of the country now. They’d moved into the city to pursue grand projects and prestigious jobs and they never visited, noses scrunched up at the thought of coming back to the suburbs or the countryside . And Alfie had been one of them once, even had a fancy job lined up with a firm in London, but he refused it. The old couple had absolutely no one left around here either—the thought of leaving them stranded was more haunting than having his friends move a few hours away.
So he roamed around his garden, tended to the flowers and picked up fallen fruit from the grass. Scrubbed his windows and his shower walls, brewed pots of tea fit for 2 people and poured the extra down the drain.
-
There was a soft knock at his door the following Saturday evening. Alfie considered taking a butter knife with him, because he never expected guests, but the area was safe. Family-friendly is how they described it. He left the knife out on the counter just in case.
But it wasn’t a burglar on the other side, just Tommy Shelby with a bowl in his hands and an embarrassed smile on his lips. “It’s potato salad. I bought lettuce in the market before reading the recipe online, so I can make a real salad if you prefer. It’s not a lot, but it didn’t require me turning the stove on.”
“You didn’t boil the potatoes?”
“You’re supposed to boil them?” Horror flooded Tommy’s eyes.
And Alfie simply laughed, overwhelmed. “Do you want to come in? I’ve got enough tea for two.”
-
The potato salad was very crunchy, as was expected, but Alfie chewed through it slowly and kept assuring Tommy it was delicious. Very innovative, keeps your palette interested , is how he really described it, hoping the exaggeration did not come off as insulting.
Tommy stayed for nearly 3 hours. Alfie knew, because he kept glancing at the clock ticking behind Tommy’s head, scouring his brain for a new topic to bring up. Anything to make this last longer.
But at around half past 7, as they were wrapping up a polite debate on whether the sound of rain was soothing—Alfie was opposed, Tommy slept most peacefully those nights—Tommy checked his watch and rose from his chair. “I should get going, it’s getting late.” The sun had only just begun to set behind the clouds, but Alfie kept his mouth shut and hands tightly against his sides. He had learned to tread carefully.
Tommy reached over to collect the rest of the potato salad, but Alfie stopped him. “Leave it, I’ll finish it up and return the dish afterwards.” The food would be scattered on the other side of his home, left for the squirrels to scavenge, but he omitted that detail. Tommy nodded only once, making no eye contact, and turned to leave.
Outside on the porch, he angled his shoulders slightly, still not meeting Alfie’s eyes, mumbling, “The cobbler was the best I’ve had, by the way.” He stepped into the shadows and that was that.
Alfie shut his door tightly and leaned up against it, a bit of warmth blooming in his chest. The cobbler . Tommy had referenced the incident—cryptically, but nevertheless. But why? To indicate he forgave him? To suggest he didn’t mind it after all? To apologize for not warning Alfie about his aversion beforehand?
The most appropriate explanation for it all was that Tommy had simply wanted to compliment Alfie’s baking—an innocent, meaningless comment. So maybe it was nothing.
But perhaps it was something.
Alfie had forgotten how consuming crushes could be.
-
Tommy did not use the lettuce to make a salad, but Alfie resumed his own routine.
The following Saturday, it was an apple strudel. This particular fall had nurtured the apples in his garden to a perfect crispness—Alfie’s own mouth watered on the walk over.
Tommy had planted some tulips on the small stretch of dirt he had in front of his porch—red, yellow and pink heads lined up irregularly. He’d buried them much too close to the surface. Some roots were visible above the soil and a few of the flowers had begun to tip over, petals brushing against the milkweeds.
Tommy greeted Alfie with a smile this time, dressed in a plain undershirt and hair still disheveled from sleep, eyes squinting into the light. It was nearly 1 in the afternoon. Then again, it was the weekend, though Alfie had never understood the sense in wasting a day by staying in bed.
“You know, your tulips will live longer if you uproot all of the weeds.” Alfie gestured behind him.
“Oh, really?” the surprise in his voice masked some of the grogginess left over. In any other situation Alfie would have been agitated with someone so out of touch with these pieces of information, but Tommy’s genuine bewilderment towards the simple mechanics of life was endearing.
The sunlight was highlighting a faint dusting of freckles over Tommy’s nose, his eyes sparkling. Have those always been there? Alfie had clearly been wrong about his figure, because the short sleeves revealed the muscle wrapped around his upper arms, a square of exposed skin right above his pant line, where the shirt had untucked itself….
Alfie blinked sharply, hoping that would dissolve the shock in his own expression. But he forgot to respond to the question and Tommy shifted from one leg to the other.
“Would you like a piece?” The question snapped Alfie back into the moment.
“A piece?” A piece of what? He had made sure to not dwell on the skin for too long—on any spot, for that matter. He had been moving his eyes from one place to another every 5 seconds, to reduce the amount of suspicion and—
“The cake.” Tommy looked down to Alfie’s hands. The cake . The fucking strudel that was suddenly searing his palms and fingers.
“Oh, right. Yes—I’d love a piece.” He did not attempt to hide his eagerness that time.
-
To put it simply, the space they walked into was the complete opposite of Alfie’s cluttered home. The bank had clearly renovated before selling it off—all of the walls were the color of eggshells, wooden boards now covering the floors, replacing the shag carpets Alfie had been quite fond of. There was one, black loveseat in the living room standing atop some kind of brown woven rug and a small stereo system. In the middle of it all lay a mattress, blankets still crumpled up in a pile. Nearly two months had passed since Tommy had moved in, but it looked more like two days. Though there didn’t seem to be much more to unpack anyway—as if Tommy had fit his whole life into the four cardboard boxes stacked up in the corner.
The only bit of character inside was a photo mounted above the fold out table in the kitchen. A beach, white sand and flocking seagulls, reeds bent over by the wind. Only when looked at up close was the tiny boat on the water visible.
“It’s a picture from Margate, down in the south, by the sea. My family used to own a summer home out there.” Tommy explained when he noticed Alfie inspecting it. Alfie knew Margate, his parents had done the same when he was younger.
Tommy’s hands shook slightly as he sliced into the pastry—using the only knife he had hidden in the drawer—but Alfie pretended not to notice and studied the paint chipping along the hinges of his cabinets. They were in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint, something other than the overwhelming white swallowing them whole. A lot of elements needed to be freshened up, really—to bring some life into this home.
Though, the simplicity of the decor was oddly fitting for Tommy—very pretty, in a very sad way.
-
Their conversation mirrored the one they had at Alfie’s, apart from the fact that Tommy was sat on the floor. He only had one chair—unsurprisingly—and insisted his guest take it. Hauling over the armchair would be needlessly complicated, he said, the floor was perfectly fine.
So they talked, Alfie’s head angled slightly downwards—an ache forming at the back of his neck—and Tommy’s slightly upwards—the same ache developing, for a different reason.
They were friends now , Alfie remarked to himself, this was what friends did . Tommy was not very talkative, but that suited Alfie perfectly fine because he always had a list of his observations and theories slotted away to be used for moments like this. And Tommy seemed to enjoy it, even snorted in laughter when Alfie retold his baking origin stories—flour in his eyes, his mother’s screams in his ear and, somehow, batter between his toes.
“Everything she made was delicious, didn’t matter how disgusting it sounded or looked. I think part of it is because she always dressed for the occasion—makeup on, fingernails painted, large hoops hanging from her ears. I think the food appreciated that.” Alfie had never said that aloud. It sounded awfully childish when released into the air.
“Is that why you wear those?” Tommy pointed to the rings on Alfie’s fingers, all but two decorated with some type of golden band.
Alfie chuckled softly, examining them as if he’d forgotten they were there. “Yeah, I suppose that’s why I wear them.”
They brewed in the silence for a bit, Alfie still surveying his hands. “Well, I can assure you they’re working.”
Tommy’s smile was confident, but the embarrassment in his eyes betrayed him. They’d both finished eating, Alfie took that as his cue to leave.
He had slipped his shoes back on, facing Tommy in the doorway, when Tommy reached out and patted his shoulder lightly, awkwardly. “Thank you, Alfie.” he looked to him as if searching for some approval— Did I do that right?
“You’re welcome, Tommy.” Alfie did not reciprocate the touching— baby steps, he thought to himself—but the feeling fizzled against his skin until the next morning.