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Arthur had been surprised, when Tommy had trotted along to the boxing hall. He had just grabbed his coat off the hook and followed him through the door, knowing Arthur would go there like he had every Friday evening before the war. Maybe he just wanted to have his older brother to himself for a while.
They hadn’t seen each other for months. Never been apart this long ever before.
He didn’t speak much these days, Tommy.
At least not ever since Arthur had come back for Christmas.
Polly’d told him Greta was getting worse by the day.
The whole country really was in a foul mood these days. The initial eagerness to fight had started to wear off as the days got shorter, the night’s colder and the larders ever emptier.
The war demanded more and more men and Arthur, as most of the other men his age in Small Heath had signed up early and been shipped off to the continent in early autumn as one of the first troops. It should've been done and over by Christmas. Fuck.
Polly had given them a talk, Tommy and John.
Said Arthur was enough of a loss for the family, but John was old enough too now and it wasn’t a secret he wanted to fight.
Pol was having none of it though, and Tommy hadn’t said a word about any of it so far.
Everybody assumed he didn’t think about much except Greta. At least he had started eating a little more again since Arthur had come back.
No meat on the boy these days. He’d looked worse than the boys that got sent home after weeks in the field hospitals, wasting away to skin and bones. Had told him that too, Arthur had, but Tommy had just pouted and said nothing, before reluctantly picking his fork back up a moment later to pick at the leftover food on his plate.
“You coming along to distract yourself, eh Tom?” Arthur smiled now, bumping lightly into his younger brother. Tommy had been entirely unprepared, lost in his thoughts, and stumbled slightly. No answer.
Once they’d reached the old warehouse, Arthur naturally took his shirt off, then his trousers and put them on a bench nearby. Turning around, he glimpsed Tommy beside him doing exactly the same. He must’ve stood there, gobsmacked as he was, for a bit too long, for Tommy glared at him, crossing his arms stiffly in front of his naked chest.
He’d never liked this, prudish little prick he was.
So what the fuck was he doing here now?
“You ‘aven’t been fightin’ ever since you were like ten, Tom. Never came along after-”
Tommy just rolled his eyes, huffed and turned around, walking towards the ropes and picked one up in order to warm up. Arthur followed, still not really knowing what was going on.
He’d always been good at skipping, but that was about the only thing Tommy’d be able to beat Arthur to in here.
“Oi!”
Bobby Fairlane stalked over to them, a shit-eating grin on his face.
“S’ that Tommy fucking Shelby I see over there?”
He snorted loudly and Tommy’s eyes turned towards the roof once again, never slowing down in his skips.
“Never saw you in ‘ere again after yer dad dragged your bloody bonce out of the ring by the hair. Must’ve been more than ten years ago, eh Arthur? Did your little brother lose a bet or what the fuck made him set foot in ‘ere again?”
The jumping rope hit the floor with a clattering noise and Tommy walked past Bobby, towards the fighting boxes. Arthur was quick to scramble behind him.
“Tommy!” He yanked his brother around. “You sure you wanna do this? The boys in ‘ere train every week…”
“Fuck off, Arthur,” Tommy hissed and pulled his arm free.
“Is this about Greta? She doin’ that poorly, Tommy? You wanna get your ‘ead bashed in just to hurt on the outside too?”
No answer. This silence was driving him mad.
Had always had a big mouth, his little brother.
What had happened?
He hadn’t even seen a real fucking fight yet, like Arthur had. Hadn’t witnessed dead men hanging over barbed wire fences like dirty washing on the line. That sight would make him go mute then probably.
Sweet Tommy.
Good boy with the pretty eyes, who used to carry the old ladies’ shopping from the market to their doorstep for a few pennies or sweeties. Smartest lad in the whole class on the days he decided to actually go to school. Mrs. Changretta had even told mum and dad so. Dad hadn’t cared much, but mum had looked so proud.
‘You’re gonna be quite something one day, Tommy.’
But mum was gone, dad was god knows where, both of them had abandoned them willingly, and now Tommy was about to lose the first girl he had ever loved. No matter how grown up he tried to act, Arthur still saw a lost little boy in him.
“Oi, I won’t let any of them touch ya, Tom, I swear. No one will give you as much as a shove, because they know I’ll beat them to a bloody pulp next time they get in the ring with me. So now you tell me what the fuck is going on.”
Tommy stared back at Arthur but he was the first to break eye contact; not something that usually happened. He swayed a little from side to side, locking his arms in front of his chest again. He’d done that ever since he was a boy too.
“Need to gain weight alright. Bit of muscle won’t hurt either.”
More than he’d said ever since Arthur had come home, but he still had no idea what he was talking about and it must’ve shown on his face.
“They won’t take me, eh. Not like... this,” Tommy gestured towards his own body.
“Who won’t-”
Arthur blinked at Tommy, worrying his eyebrows together. He knew he wasn’t one to get something fast, but he really had no clue what his brother was on about.
“The fucking army, Arthur!”
Shit. So he had been thinking about it then.
“There’s a minimum weight for soldiers,” Tommy sighed, sounding exhausted, tired of needing to even explain this. “And I don’t bloody make it, alright? Went there two days ago. And they… fucking weighed me and said they wouldn’t… No one fucking asks you because they all know you and that you’re a bloody animal in the boxing ring, but I’m just the scrawny stableboy in their eyes. The brother who’s always been an absolute failure in the ring. The one Shelby Senior always beat up, eh?”
His eyes were wide open and angry now. Arthur shivered from the cold sweat slowly drying on his back from skipping.
“So if you won’t let anyone else fight me, then you’re gonna ‘ave to do it yourself, Arthur.”
Tommy raised his fists, tilted his body sidewards and waited for his brother to do the same, but Arthur just stood there.
“Tommy-”
“What, Arthur? What? It’s a fight. Like any other. Wouldn’t want to lose your reputation in ‘ere, eh? The boys will have a fine laugh if you get beaten up by your little brother.”
He was just trying to get a rise out of Arthur now, and he wouldn’t go along with that.
He wouldn’t let him do this.
Tommy and his razor-sharp words.
Had always been more like mum for that matter. Their dad had tried to beat it out of him enough times, but his spite had just grown with every split lip and every black eye. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t-
When the blob of spit hit Arthur in the face, all he could do was stare at Tommy. His glinting, cornflower-blue eyes, a string of saliva still dangling from his plump bottom lip. He had a strange, faint grin on his lips; wicked in a way.
‘Beautiful boy.’
It reminded Arthur of their mother once again.
“Fight me.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, Tom.”
“Fuck you.”
Another wet smack of spit landed just below Arthur’s eye and he felt anger coil deep in his belly.
“Aven’t you taught your little brother a bit o’ respect, Arthur?” Bobby laughed somewhere in the background. “Thought he was the gentle one, eh? Working with the ‘orses and all? Readin’ stories to the little sister, no?”
Tommy’s fist connected with Arthur’s jaw.
He let it happen, let the pain blossom and warm his cheek.
“Your brother hits like a girl, Arthur, but with that defense of yours he’ll still have ya unconscious in a few hours!” Someone joked from another fighting box behind them.
The lads in the ring laughed, most of them having stopped their own fights to watch the bizarre scene unfold. Tommy was full on grinning now, sucking his cheeks in, preparing for another-
“If you spit at me one more time, I swear to god, Tommy-”
It hit him in the chest this time, slowly sliding down across his taut stomach.
“Show me you’re our father’s son, Arthur. Show me how a ‘real Shelby’ fights, eh?”
A real Shelby.
Dad had never really had a lot of kindness to spare for Tommy. Hadn’t been around when he’d been born, so their mother had decided to give him a name and finally had him baptised at six months old. Named him Thomas after her own little brother; the one that had drowned when he was only three years old. She used to say Tommy had looked just like him as a babe. Beautiful boy. Only ever had had eyes for him.
Dad didn’t see mum’s side of the family in him though. He saw other men.
Charlie Strong, or the kind policeman who always looked away when their mum or Polly slipped an apple and a loaf of bread into their bags; anyways, he was sure Tommy wasn’t his.
Not a real Shelby.
And then the boy didn’t want to fight either. Got embarrassed in the ring with all the other shirtless boys, cowered in the corner watching, until their dad dragged him into the ring and beat him up himself. Arthur had never really wondered why Tommy hated the ring so much and rather hid away in the stables, in Uncle Charlie’s shadow. That made dad’s fury only worse though. ‘Scared little frog’ he used to yell after Tommy, when he managed to run away before he could get him by the back of his too big shirt.
“Tom-“
The next punch hit Arthur’s temple, causing a high singing noise to erupt in his ear. He took two stumbling steps back amidst the laughter of the other men in the Bull Ring. Tommy took the two steps forward and punched him in the ribs.
The anger was bubbling up inside Arthur’s stomach again, and when a voice in the background joked that Arthur Shelby was letting his little brother beat him up like his dad had taken their mother’s slaps whenever he had been shitfaced drunk, he had trouble keeping himself from giving his little brother a fine black eye to match his ebony hair.
A memory struck him. He’d always felt so guilty as a child himself, when sometimes he’d wished Tommy’d drown too after turning three. He’d loved the little thing, yeah, but mum didn’t loved him anymore after he’d been born and-
Fuck this. Fuck the past. Family was all that mattered and he couldn’t lose his brothers. And Tommy didn’t mean this. He was angry and hurt and emotional. Arthur had to fucking keep it together.
He took a step forward, body angled sideways, fists raised, and when Tommy’s arm shot forward again, he blocked him with ease and delivered a well-aimed punch to his collarbone. Not very hard, but enough to make Tommy stagger backwards. He quickly collected himself and came at him again. He ducked Arthur’s next, unmotivated swing and managed to dig a fist painfully into his side. Arthur’s vision went white with pain for a moment.
“S’ that all you got, Arthur? Eh?” Tommy chuckled. “Fuck me, how’d you make it through the war until now? Slow as that you should’ve made a nice target for a lazy sniper.”
He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen what Arthur had seen.
“Shut up, Tommy.”
“Well, France really must be a fucking picnic and the Germans can’t be as tall as everyone says, if you can’t even manage to take me down. Makes me wonder why the army wouldn’t take me.”
Tommy wasn’t going to make him look like a bloody loser.
“You might be the smart one, but in here I’m the bloody winner, Tommy. I am! Not you, and you know it!”
What with not letting Tommy get a rise out of him?
Arthur shot forward again, aiming for Tommy’s shoulder, but if his little brother had one useful quality in the ring, it was speed.
Arthur knew that though.
When he realised Tommy was going to duck his blow, he changed his stance and hit him across the face with his left hand.
Tommy’s head flew to the side and his hand came up to cup his cheek for a second, staring at Arthur with something close to surprise in his eyes.
It didn’t last long though until he was on him again, struggling to make his fists reach a target. Arthur blocked most of his attempts easily, years and years of training taking over, overpowering Tommy and his inexperience easily.
Tommy fought like a wild cat, always had.
It seemed to take some effort for him to keep his fists balled and not use his open hands to slap or scratch at Arthur. He couldn’t headbutt him either, which was the one thing that had saved his ass before, running away from a policeman.
But a fair boxing fight clearly wasn’t for him. Arthur could hold him at bay without much effort, though it took some moderation to not take advantage of Tommy’s shitty defence.
He had to calm down.
Tried not landing any blows himself, just kept Tommy as far away as possible and busy trying to get close. He could tell he was getting tired. His body trembled slightly, his hair was damp with sweat, beading in his hairline and running down his face, across his abused, red cheek and down his sinewy neck.
The frustration of not being able to get to Arthur riled him up big style though, because suddenly Arthur gasped at the knee that had just landed in his crotch.
“Fuck-“ he gasped breathlessly but forced himself to stay upright and keep the pain from his face. Tommy, sporting his wicked, little grin again, waited kindly for Arthur to recover.
“That’s not how we do it in ‘ere, Tom, and you bloody know it!”
His fist connected with his little brother’s face harder than it had before. Tommy didn’t have his defense up properly. Too slow for a moment.
“You bloody know that!”
Another blow to his cheekbone. He was already stumbling, when Arthur landed the third one.
He watched him go down; hit his head on the wooden barrier too.
“That’s our champion there finally,” Bobby chuckled. The men started to go back to their own fights, thinking that this was it.
Yet Tommy had already sat up again, obviously dizzy, but he scrambled to his feet anyways.
“Stay down, Tom. It’s over,” Arthur sighed, not looking at him but turning away.
He felt ashamed rather than victorious.
The punch in the shoulder came faster and harder than to be expected from a man who’d certainly just earned himself a mild concussion moments ago.
“S’not over as long as I’m standing, eh? You punch like a gorger*, Arthur.”
The velocity of Arthur’s turning around, paired with the blow he landed to Tommy’s chest, sent his little brother crashing back into the barrier. His fingers grabbing onto the wood to not go down again, to keep upright, adrenaline still flowing through him in waves.
He sure wasn’t making it easy for Arthur.
It took a few shuddering breaths, but he still managed to keep his body upright and move towards his brother again. Arthur shook his head and sighed.
“C’mon, Tom. It’s over.”
The blob of spit trailing down his thigh a second later was coloured red, but Arthur didn’t notice it. Tommy coughed a little, but the grin was still there.
“Dad would be disappointed in you, Arthur. Coward. Can’t finish me off, eh? Dad always said anyone with enough endurance will have your balls because you never bloody finish what you start. Not properly anyways, eh? Fuck me, he’d beat the living shit out of you for being such a fucking disgr-”
Arthur didn’t really know what it was. Dad had always been his weak spot. His biggest disappointment and yet Arthur had always been the one to place all his hopes on him whenever he came back...
Sometimes he lost control; the other soldiers had said so, when it had happened that night they’d staged a fight in the camp.
He usually fought fair, but when this happened he was unpredictable, not in control, not really there anymore.
Tommy’s hands were up, in front of his face, but he tore them away, fist kissing the hot, raw skin of his cheek.
There was blood on his face now, a lot of it. Arthur didn’t know when it had happened. He had a gash above his eyebrow, his lip was split, blood in his mouth making him choke on his panicked, quick breaths as he lay on his back on the floor, beneath Arthur.
He winced when another punch landed.
“Fuck you!”
Arthur heard himself yelling.
He saw his fists go down on his little brother again.
“Fuck you!”
He had to stop.
Tommy tried to curl up into a ball underneath him. When he tried to raise his arms again, Arthur easily pressed them to the floor one-handed. Slender muscles had no fight left in them apart from the tremors running through them.
Then another punch.
The sick, crunching sound and the mewling, high-pitched cry Tommy gave simultaneously alerted Bobby and two or three other men.
They were quick to enter the ring, where Arthur was still on top of his brother, fists pounding into his body, repeating his mantra of increasingly desperate Fuck you’s.
Tommy wasn’t defending himself anymore, he seemed to be unconscious, when the other men dragged Arthur off him. He stayed on the floor, sprawled in exactly the position Arthur’s fists had arranged him.
Bobby took a deep breath when he felt a flickering pulse and heard him breathe raggedly.
“Fuckin’ ell, Arthur! You trying to kill ‘im?!”
Arthur was returning to reality slowly, clawing through the white, hot rage clouding his senses. He noticed the blood on his hands and the straw-covered ground first, before his eyes attached themselves to his brother’s crumpled body on the floor.
Bobby was carefully feeling for any injuries in Tommy’s neck, then grabbed his right arm and laid it across his bare, blood smeared chest, inspecting the broken collarbone sticking up grotesquely, almost piercing the skin.
Arthur felt tears well up in his eyes.
He crawled forward, cowering beside Tommy’s body, taking his limp, left hand into both of his.
“Shit, Tommy… I… I’m so sorry. I… Wake up, eh? Wake up, little brother. I’m sorry.”
-
It was at least an hour later, though it seemed like an eternity to Arthur, that they had Tommy sit up against the barrier with Bobby’s help and the doctor they’d called to take in his injuries.
He wasn’t grinning now; his left eye had swollen shut and his body pitched forward every other moment, violently shaking as he was sick again and again. Arthur sat opposite him, hands on his little brother’s knees, still crying over what he’d done and whispering apologies he wasn’t sure Tommy heard.
When the retching had mostly subsided, the doctor finally set the broken collarbone, splinted and bandaged it, with only mild complaining from Tommy’s side. He kept on passing out in between.
When he dragged Tommy home that night, he still hadn’t said a word. He hung at Arthur’s side, dragging his feet, whining weakly when Arthur went too fast and moved him in a wrong way.
Polly would kill him once she found out.
“Fuck, Tom. I’m so sorry,” he whispered when he deposited his little brother on the doorstep for a moment to turn the key in the lock. Tommy hummed, brow worried together in a pained frown. He coughed again, leaving a fine smattering of blood on his shirtsleeve.
“S’alright, Arthur.”
It was said so fucking quietly, Arthur first wasn’t sure he’d heard him.
“I deserved it, eh?”
“No, you fucking didn’t,” Arthur murmured, helping Tommy stand again. “Knew I could finish ya if I wanted to but… lost control. I don’t know.”
“S’okay,” Tommy slurred, still high from the little brown bottle the doctor had made him drink from, as he let himself be half carried into the house.
Arthur never understood how Tommy could be outright hateful one second and forgiving in the next.
Even as a child, he’d never stayed angry with Arthur or anyone for long.
He was quick to forgive others, Tommy, perhaps too quick.
His hostile words remained in Arthur’s mind far longer than Tommy’s moods ever lasted. He’d be smiling and joking again, while Arthur still silently mulled over his sharp insults. He didn’t know if Tommy knew how painful his words could sometimes be.
“Shit! What ‘appened, Arthur?”
John’s voice interrupted his train of thought, and Arthur found himself standing in the kitchen, John wide-eyed, Ada clutching a hand over her mouth, Polly already going for a bottle of rum and the drawer with the bandages, mumbling “bloody idiot” under her breath.
She was by Arthur’s side a moment later, making him help her guide Thomas towards the sofa. She started wiping a wet cloth over his sweat- and blood-smeared face.
“What have I told you, Thomas?” she hissed, when he whimpered as the scratchy fabric went over raw skin. “Stay at home and talk to me.”
“... Talk about what?” Arthur asked worriedly, untying first his own and then Tommy’s shoelaces.
Polly looked at him with sad eyes but she didn’t answer.
“Who did this to ‘im?” she asked instead. Arthur swallowed hard, looked away, busied himself with pulling off Tommy’s boots.
“Arthur. Is there a man out there who deserves a fucking beating for going down on a Shelby like that-” she gestured toward her nephew’s sorry form, “-or have you taken care of it already?”
Tommy snorted a painful laugh. “Arthur took care of ‘im, Pol. He did.”
Arthur was too confused to tell them the truth. If Tommy wouldn’t spill the beans, why should he? He felt bad enough already.
Tommy sniffled and brought his uninjured hand up to wipe his mouth. “M’ gonna be sick.”
Ada quickly came back with a bucket and crouched down beside her brother just in time. She laid her arm across Tommy’s quivering back, pressed a quick kiss into his sweaty hair and whispered a small “I’m so sorry, Tom,” into his ear.
Polly sighed, squeezed Tommy’s knee and got up, telling John to get some hot water ready for the bathtub. When Finn appeared bleary-eyed on the stairs, she told him to get back to bed, but when he started crying upon spotting his brother, she picked him up and carried him over to the rest of the Shelbys piled up around Tommy on the too small sofa.
“Tom… I don’t know what to say,” John started, when he was done dragging the tin tub into the living room.
“It doesn’t matter, John,” Polly interrupted. “He doesn’t want to hear it. Believe me, Ada and I tried it. He’d rather have his thick skull bashed in than talk, right Thomas?”
She sounded angry and so tired, and Arthur still didn’t know what was going on.
“Talk about what?” he asked again.
He hadn’t noticed the tears snaking their way down Tommy’s cheeks, until Polly gently wiped them away with her thumb and hushed him softly. Ada’s eyes were wet too, and she grabbed Tommy’s hand a little more tightly.
“Talk about w-”
“Greta’s dead, Arthur. She… died this morning, alright,” Tommy choked out, giving his brother as furious a look as he could manage. “I… I didn’t know what to do with meself, so-”
It dawned on Arthur then.
Tommy and his self-loathing.
As if any of that - Greta having consumption, the war - any of it, was his fault. Quick to forgive others, but hell, he could blame himself for things he had no fucking influence on.
Seemed Arthur had been right earlier that day.
Tommy had needed to hurt on the outside too.