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Alfie opened the door and the next thing he knew was that Tommy was in his arms, burying his face in his neck; his trembling hands grasped at the front of his skirt, seeking for the balance, and Alfie hugged him before he could even process what was going on. They’ve never been this close, never have they shared any touch, besides shaking hands, and for a brief moment Alfie was overwhelmed by the sensations - the cold hands brushing against his skin, the light scent of horses and gunpowder, the wetness of Tommy’s clothes that had drenched in the rain, the heat radiating from their bodies, the cool evening breeze...
… and here they were, this mess of a man in his embracement, crying his eyes out, exposing his weakness like he didn’t have a care in the world anymore. Hot tears flowed down Alfie’s neck to the collar of his shirt as he tried to to push Tommy away, but younger man clung to him, chest against chest, his heart beating frantically in his ribcage; Alfie could only hold him, hold him like he was the most precious treasure in this godforsaken world.
“Tommy?” there was a lot of questions he could ask in this moment, but he swept them all aside and posed the most important one, “you alright?”
It was clear he was not - he wouldn’t be there in the first place if he was. Alfie had heard about the fiasco of Tommy’s plan; he had broken the rule he had set for himself - he had promised himself not to care about the world news anymore since he had retired, but his curiosity made him put on the radio just once to listen to the news broadcast. Instead of hearing that Oswald Mosley had been shot, he learnt that he had given a powerful speech and had been applauded by his followers gathered outside Birmingham’s Bingley Hall.
But it wasn’t the reason why Tommy was trembling all over, he was mentally - and probably physically, too - hurt. Alfie hadn’t had many occasions to show he cared about his friend before, but now it felt like a right moment to prove it.
“Tommy,” he repeated, cupping Shelby’s nape to make him look into his eyes - the usually blue ones were bloodshot from crying, and Alfie wondered how the fuck had he even managed to conduct a car in this state, “what’s wrong? Spit it out, won’t you?”
Tommy’s larynx bobbed in his throat and he tried to look away, but Alfie held him still, not letting him move. “I shot… I almost…” Alfie had never heard him talking erratically like this, “I almost shot myself,” he choked out finally, and as soon as he did, he dipped his head again and hid his face in Alfie’s collar.
Now, that wasn’t something Alfie expected to hear. Tommy’s state had gotten worse, he had noticed it when they had last met, those recurring dreams about Tommy, in the field, on a black horse… but despite it all, he didn’t believe Shelby could designfully choose to hurt himself. There were many people who wanted him dead - if he was the one to pull the trigger and send himself to hell, it would be pretty ironic.
And what if it made sense? Maybe the only man he couldn’t defeat was Tommy himself?
“You armed, Tom?” Alfie asked clear-headedly, “the gun, where did you put it?”
“Threw it away,” he could feel Tommy’s lips moving on his neck as he answered, “sank in the river, damned thing.”
They had to move from the doorstep, Alfie figured out. It was freezing-cold outside, and Tommy was shivering, either from the temperature or from his shock, perhaps both. As gently as he could, he drew Tommy inside and closed the door behind him.
“You’ll go to bed, that’s it,” he announced, not giving Tommy enough time to protest against it, and he pulled him through the hallway.
If he had his strength from years back, Alfie could effortlessly lift Tommy and carry him upstairs, but as his health had worsened, he’d lost the ability to do so. He helped Tommy the best as he could, letting him lean on his shoulder and somehow they made it upstairs, to a guest bedroom. Tommy crawled into a bed in his clothes, under the blankets, searching for the alleviation in the smell of freshly washed covers, in the softness of a pillow Alfie slipped under his head, in the touch of Alfie’s hand on his cheek, sweeping wet hair from his forehead.
“Can you believe? I missed,” he choked quietly at the sound that resembled laugh, and it terrified Alfie to the core, “I fucking missed. I missed when I tried to shoot you, I missed when I tried to shoot meself,” Alfie remained silent, waiting for Tommy to finish the thought, because his mouth kept running, which, for him, was quite unusual, “Won medals at war for killing people, now I cannot even kill myself.”
“Go to sleep, Tommy,” was all Alfie said in response, but Tommy wouldn’t let him go now.
“Can’t sleep alone. Nightmares,” he confessed, and if it had been someone else than Alfie before him, he would’ve blushed admitting to such a weakness; but with Alfie, who seemingly didn’t care about anything in the world, he knew he could admit to it.
Alfie didn’t say a word, he just seated himself on the edge of the bed. Tommy looked at him like he was waiting for something. There was no way in hell Alfie would lay down next to him, so he rolled his eyes and offered Tommy his hand to hold. Younger man took it and squeezed it, putting the entire force contained in his hurt, weak body into it, as though it was the only way for him to forget what had happened. He soon fell asleep, peaceful at last, holding Alfie’s palm and smiling in his dream.
xxx
Alfie stared at his reflection in the mirror. He could see Tommy’s small, trembling body wrapped in the covers behind him, and the contrast between himself and the other man hit him harder than ever. Among the two of them, Alfie had always seemed to be the stronger, more powerful one; his stockiness, his broad shoulders, his bushy beard - contrary to Tommy’s leanness, pallor and feminine facial features. But the man gazing at him from the looking glass now was nothing like Alfie years ago - surveying his own reflection, he saw a weak, sore and fucking exhausted man, whereas Tommy - even though panting in his uneasy dream - seemed young and lively.
Alfie was dying - he had known this before, but never had it struck him so vividly. He had to take a seat at the edge of the bed, not to tumble down on the floor. He composed himself only when he laid down next to Tommy, letting younger man’s breaths lull him to sleep.
xxx
Back in the Arrow House, Tommy was laying in bed next to Lizzie, moonlight creeping into the room through half-closed blinds. As Tommy leant over her, casting a shadow on her face, her dark hair scattered over the white pillow, he suddenly felt the need to kiss her, to press their foreheads together, to feel her hands on his chest, his back - to sink into her touch.
He threw himself back to the pillows, hiding his face in the bend of his elbow. The reason why she was there, in his bed, the reason why she had become his wife to begin with - it was because he couldn’t restrain himself, couldn’t control his desires, couldn’t keep his dick in his trousers, used her over and over again until she got pregnant-
Tommy bit on his hand not to start screaming. He was pathetic. If the man he had been ten years ago could see him, he would have laughed at him.
Did he love Lizzie? Yes. It took him a long time to understand it, but he loved her, trusted in her; she was his anchor, his guardian angel, a mother to his children. She was more of a parent for Charlie than Tommy was, even though he wasn’t her son, and for this alone Tommy owed her all his love and commitment. He had loved her body first; then fell in love with her bigheartedness and the steadiness she had brought to his life after Grace’s death.
Did he love Alfie?
That was a question he was too scared to answer.
xxx
As much as Alfie would like to believe he had fallen for Tommy instantly, during their first meeting, it was most definitely not true. When he had seen Shelby for the first time, the man was beaten to pulp, visibly broken, and if Alfie wasn’t the man he was, he would feel compassion towards him. But he was cruel, so he didn’t think too much, pulling the gun and pointing it to Shelby’s head.
And then the fucker’s nose started bleeding and Alfie, for some fucking reason, put the gun down.
He thought about this moment, about this little detail, too many times, when he couldn't sleep late at night. Why had he hesitated, why hadn’t he fired at him, why had he let him walk out of his bakery and agreed to help him? Yes, he was losing the war in London, but was it the only reason why he let this man live?
Alfie missed out the moment when he had fallen for Tommy, but he certainly had at some point. He hadn’t realised it, however, up until he asked him to meet him at Margate, to do him a favour and put the bullet in his head. He understood it only when Tommy agreed, without a word, with a concern in his blue eyes. Tommy agreed to kill him, and in his own, twisted way, it was an act of mercy. An act of love.
The years after that had been dull and full of yearning, and when Tommy finally came to Margate to see him, Alfie made peace with himself. After Tommy had left, Alfie went to bed, thinking that he might die that night and he would be happy with that, having Tommy’s visit as the last mortal memory.
But somehow he was still alive, and Tommy was alive, too, and the fact that they both avoided death for so long was just fucking ridiculous.
And somehow, Tommy was in his bed again, so close yet so far, with his forehead pressed to Alfie’s arm and his mind drifting somewhere far away.
xxx
Tommy could recall vividly the moment he had thought about Alfie this way for the first time. It happened during their argument, when Tommy almost shot him in rage. And then Alfie lost it, yelled at him, proving his point, and Tommy wanted to choke him with bare hands, but also, fucking hell - he felt the urge to kiss him, and he couldn’t help but stare at his lips, wondering how would they feel on his. If it wasn’t for Michael, who was watching them, ready to pull out his gun if things would get out of hand, Tommy would do it, right in this moment, he would kiss him and wouldn’t care.
He knew Alfie wanted him too, he could tell. The way he acted around him, the way he addressed him… silly boy, sweetie … these weren’t the names to call your friend, even a dear one. Alfie looked at him as though he was a deity to worship, a fucking golden calf, or something.
And Tommy have been lingering for such a long time, but now he had nothing to lose. His family hated him anyways, so he could visit Alfie every other day if he wanted to.
And he wanted to.
xxx
Tommy was not desperate. Or at least that was what he wanted to believe in. The patience wasn’t his strong point, but he waited, waited for Alfie to do something. But Alfie was either hesitant or just testing him, and whatever it was, it was driving Tommy insane.
One evening, after dinner, sitting in the drawing room at Margate, Tommy was trying to listen to Alfie talking, but he couldn’t focus on his words - the subjects were changing every minute or so, from politics to shooting seagulls, and Tommy just stared at him, thinking he would fucking explode if he wouldn’t do something right away, if Alfie wouldn’t put his hands on him-
“Ah, fuck it, ” he mumbled to himself and leant forwards, bringing their lips together. Alfie’s lips were surprisingly warm and soft against his as he grunted quietly at Tommy’s unexpected move. Shelby anticipated Alfie grabbing him by his hair, pulling him closer, kissing him roughly and messily until he would pant loudly into his mouth-
Nothing like this happened. Alfie’s hands landed on his shoulder blades - just holding , not pushing him in any direction. His lips remained unresponsive, despite Tommy’s chaotic attempts to make him return the kiss, despite his hands winding at his hair, and Tommy suddenly felt short of breath - not because the oxygen had been forcefully squeezed out of his lungs, like he would like it to happen under Alfie’s firm touch, but because he figured out he had probably fucked up, fucked up hard already-
“Tommy?” Alfie gently pushed him back, and if it wasn't for his hands insuring him, Tommy would fall to the floor - his muscles gave up and went slack as he inhaled sharply, feeling the rush of the blood in his veins, the ache pulsating in his skull; he blinked several times to regain a clear vision, and heard Alfie’s soothing words, sounding like he was underwater, “shhh, love, I’ve gotcha, it’s fine.”
The balmlike strokes at his back palliated him, and Tommy pressed his forehead to the curve of Alfie’s neck, whispering, “m’sorry.” He didn’t know how could he misunderstand Alfie’s intentions and push it, but the feeling of regret crept into his heart, and he could only repeat, “ I’m sorry, I’m sorry ,” over and over again. He couldn’t remember the last time he had apologised to someone, but now, shivering in Alfie’s embracement, his mind was running in circles and he couldn’t stop his mouth from mumbling words of apologies.
“Calm down,” Alfie’s voice was raspy above Tommy’s ear, “you’d like to lay down? Easier to catch your breath, ‘suppose.”
Tommy let himself be moved and soon he was laying on the settee, with his head on Alfie’s lap, holding Alfie’s hand like it was a lifeline, still in a daze after what had happened. Solomons’ thumb circled slowly at his palm, and this softest touch was enough to make Tommy’s heart beat in his chest harder than anytime in his lifetime. “Better now?” Alfie asked after a few minutes, and Tommy only nodded, feeling a lump in his throat slowly slackening. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” Alfie’s voice was like an ointment put on a burnt skin, and Tommy couldn’t help but gasp quietly at his words, “God himself must’ve been enraptured when he breathed life into this body of yours.”
Tommy’s cheeks blushed at the compliment he received, and he brought Alfie’s hand to his lips to kiss it like it was the most desirable thing he’s ever seen; the coarse skin against his lips as he traced light kisses through his palm, from his wrist to every finger, up his thumb and back. He was eager for touch, he wanted to cover every inch of the lovely, lovely skin with the kisses and brushes of his lips; Alfie hummed with pleasure at that, fixing his eyes at Tommy’s mouth. “Oh, Tommy,” he mumbled, letting his free hand sink into the younger man’s hair, “you’re a silly boy, aren’t ya, but a lovely one.”
The thick fog of embarrassment in Tommy’s mind finally started to settle. “I’m sorry,” he whispered once again, terrified by humility in his own voice, “misunderstood you.”
Alfie’s hand moved from Tommy’s hair to his cheek, rubbing the sensitive skin on his cheekbone, as he replied, “you did, yeah, but couldn’t say I’ve any complaints, could I?”
He was not mad at him, and this alone was a relief for Tommy; adding tender, comforting brushes of Alfie’s hand to it, it was overwhelming. He desired him, he did, right where they were, but he didn’t move, waiting for Alfie to do something first.
Alfie did not.
xxx
Tommy dreamt of Alfie’s hands; how they would feel on his skin, warm and rough; how he would squeeze the flesh, pressing the rings on his fingers to the sensitive spots, to make him gasp; how would he mark him, leaving dark bruises, either from gripping him too hard or from working his skin with his mouth and teeth; how would he take the time to torture him with just enough force to make this experience painful, but not to let Tommy get used to the pain, to remind him how strong and vicious he could be….
...or he could go gentle. Barely even touch him with his fingertips, examining the silkiness of his skin, savouring it and memorising where and how to press to make Tommy melt into the hot mess, to moan into the mattress…
Whichever path he would choose, Tommy was almost positive that Alfie could make him come from touching him only, not bothering to reach down, between his legs, to give him what he desperately needed.
Tommy woke up abruptly, his heart beating frantically in his chest. Fuck . He tried to get back to sleep, to let his fantasy move on, to see more, to feel more - but Alfie was gone and now, closing his eyelids, Tommy could only see the darkness.
He didn’t dare to touch himself after that - the projection of his imagination was too perfect to ruin it. Lingering, he turned to lay on his stomach and buried his face in the pillow, thinking about the nights when Alfie had slept next to him at Margate.
xxx
Waiting for Tommy one evening, Alfie leant over the guardrail on his balcony, contemplating the sunset and lavender blue autumn skies. The view was truly heavenly, the trill of the birds and cool breeze against his skin -
But the thought about death in the back of his mind stood in his way to enjoy himself.
Alfie had been religious his entire life, and with time his faith deepened, instead of fading. And then God said to Moses , right, to walk into the sea, to surrender, to believe his people were going to survive if only they would give themselves to God. Stand firm and you will see the deliverance the Lord will bring you today, he said. And they did, the Israelites were marching out boldly .
Alfie had walked into the sea that the war had been, believing it was for a cause, believing it made sense - but the waters flowed back and he sank, swept by the waves; he was among the Egyptians lying dead on the shore that Moses saw when he turned back to see the God imposing a punishment on Pharaoh. The war had given him a game leg and, as he found on years after it had ended, a cancer, a disease that was killing him slowly but effectively.
There was no Promised Land for him - by the end of his miserable life the only thing he could count for was a shallow grave in the middle of nowhere and no one attending the funeral - he was already dead, wasn’t he?
Was it a punishment for all his sins? A rightful punition for all the evil that he’s done throughout his lifetime? Did he even have a right to complain, to oppose to God’s will?
He had killed people. At war and after the war. Innocent and guilty. Men that had families, children, loved ones waiting for them at their homes. Now he was going to die, before he could even properly articulate how much did he love someone-
He closed his eyes and started whispering the words of Maariv. The soothing rhythm of Hebrew prayer reminded him of his childhood - he used to be enchanted every time he had been attending rituals at the synagogue. His Hebrew was not as good as it used to be, he only remembered words of prayers and excerpts from Torah, but he grasped at those words with the remains of his slowly decomposing body, like it was the only salvage.
Was loving Tommy Shelby the most sinful thing he’s ever done?
xxx
The nights weren’t peaceful for Tommy anymore - in the dark he tended to overthink, his mind wouldn’t stop running in circles, blaming himself for the mess his life had become.
Margate was his refuge, the only place where he could rest; it felt more like home than Arrow House to him.
He stayed the night at Alfie’s again. Curling on his side of the bed, Tommy was thinking about the man beside him, wondering what was on his mind, right in this moment. And Tommy could be damned for that, but he wanted to kiss him, touch him, feel his hands on his skin.
Tommy slowly found Alfie's hands in the dark. Alfie didn’t move, didn’t protest against it, and that was just enough of an invitation for him - tracing his fingers up to Alfie’s forearms to grip them, Tommy kissed him tentatively, as gently as he could. And, thank God - Alfie kissed back, at last, a bit sloppily at first, and Tommy wondered if he was hesitating or if it was due to his skull being shattered to pieces with a bullet Tommy had put in it himself. Either way it felt nice, Alfie’s soft lips against his, warm and welcoming, but it couldn’t satiate Tommy’s needs, he wanted more, he wanted fucking everything-
Alfie pushed him away as soon as Tommy’s hand made its way to lay on his chest, just below the collar of his shirt. “That’s enough, Tom,” he said, sounding weirdly distant and unusually sad.
Tommy didn’t push it, even though he was desperately in need, he could just take what Alfie could give him - even if it was only a kiss and the softest touch - but something in Alfie snapped and before he could rethink what he was doing, his hands started working on undoing his shirt. Tommy raised his eyebrow, but didn’t dare to ask an obvious question.
“You’d like to know why, don’t you? Well, that’s a fucking shame,” Alfie’s words and movements were well-measured, eyes fixed with Tommy’s, “ ‘cause I reckon you’re not able to understand.”
“What are you doing?” Tommy asked, watching Alfie unbutton his shirt.
“Showing you,” Alfie answered, slowly losing his patience, “because you, my dear, don’t seem to understand unless something’s shown to you, do you, Tom?”
Tommy clenched his jaws not to say anything and let Alfie undress himself, because it seemed he was determined to do it, to prove him something. He didn’t move, until Alfie’s shirt was tossed to the side of the bed, his chest bare, at Tommy’s disposal.
And well, fuck. What Tommy saw, was nothing he could imagine. Alfie’s chest, broad and muscular back in the day, was covered with small, irregularly-shaped scars, varying their colours from umber to black; he was marked with them like canvas that a reckless painter spilled the paint on. Tommy couldn’t help but stare, various thoughts running through his head, and it hurt, it hurt him to even watch…
“That’s it, that’s your fucking answer,” Alfie’s voice remained calm, as though he was talking about something unimportant, “you needed to know, yeah? You needed to know why won’t I just spread your legs and fuck you into the mattress, no matter how badly we both need it, right? Because this, mate,” he pointed at his chest, “this is my death sentence, and I'd rather you did not get used to my company, ‘cause it’s just a matter of days ‘till I’m buried in the ground.”
And Tommy understood. Alfie was ashamed, ashamed of his own body, ashamed of his disabilities - and this awareness made Tommy want do anything to comfort him.
“Fuck it,” Tommy said quietly, surprised that his voice sounded smooth, even though there was a war waging in his heart, “fuck it, fuck all of this. I don’t care, you hear me? I don’t. Just stay with me.”
“You’re asking for too much, mate,” Alfie noticed sadly, “you know you do, don’cha?”
Tommy wanted to kiss him, but it suddenly felt unnecessary, hug him - but it would be irrelevant, tell him he loved him - but it wouldn't be enough. He chose to remain silent - the closest to expressing his sympathy he could get.
Never in his life had any woman ligered so much, made him wait, kept the distance - and now, beside this callous man, who could’ve tossed him on the bed like he weighed nothing, Tommy felt satisfied to just lay still, to take the sweet nothing he was given. He was eager for touch, eager for hearing his voice, eager to accept whatever it takes to make Alfie feel better - and if that was it, nothingness and yearning for something that was never going to come, he was happy to stay, right here, savouring every breath and every heartbeat, to just be here with this man, for the small eternity of Alfie’s remaining days.