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It was pouring buckets the day Tommy lost himself in his mind. The downpour came in million fragments, hitting the ground in groups. The rain was cold on Tommy's skin because his fire was burning. His lungs were scorching hot, blood boiling in his veins from the amount of alcohol he drank. He thought he could think in the rain, when in reality, the droplets made it more difficult.
"Oi Tom!"
He stopped in his tracks, turned around and met the face of Violet Wright. She was leaning against her door, a silky red robe around her clad body. Tommy was sure there was nothing underneath, only her curvy silhouette. Her dark eyes surveyed the hitting rain with a smirk, she tipped her head toward him. "Ya Bobby ya daan't wanna come in? I've got Rosy Lee."
Her accent was a prominent feature, and Tommy remembered the time she and her family moved here from London. Violet can be heard from miles away if she so wished. Her family was now long gone, and she lived alone.
Alone.
"Daan't be tense. Come in!"
And he did.
Tommy followed right after her, not knowing that his life wouldn't be the same anymore. The alcohol in him was making him unaware of what he was doing.
He is going to war either way. The Shelby didn't expect to come back alive. It didn't really matter in the end.
Or so he thought.
***
"Do ya 'ave your coa'?"
You rolled your eyes, "Yes, mum, I have it."
Violet leaned against the kitchen counter, looking over you all-detective like. Her cup of tea was perched in her grip. She seemed to be holding thunderstorms within her eyes.
She watched as you took the coat in your hands, swinging it over you lazily. Grimacing, your mother took a few steps toward you, deciding to make you more approachable by fixing your collar.
Violet took a deep breath, "Why 'he Garrison?"
Your brows raised and you turned to face her, "Why not? I've been there since I was a kid. It's only right."
"Tha' was," she mumbled. "befawe…"
"Before what mum?" You asked her, watching as her dark eyes softened. She pressed her palms against your cheeks, just like she did when you were a little boy.
"Da Shelbys own 'he pub nah," she told you quietly. "Thomas Shelby…"
"The Shelbys aren't even here anymore."
"You don'' know tha'."
"I do," you told her, taking her hands off your face, holding them. "I do know that mum. I'm not a kid anymore. I see thing now. I'm told things."
She watched quietly as you took your hat, placing it over your head before strolling out of the clustered kitchen and toward the industries.
Toward your father.
She looked at you, sighing deeply when you escaped her vision. "Tha''s wha' i'm afraid ov."
Just as you reached the door, hand ready to grasp the doorknob and open it, a solid force from the outside barreled in. Your father, Harry, stenches of alcohol, looking as if had spent the night on the streets. Most likely he did.
You almost vomited. "Where's your mother?"
His voice was rough, his features rougher. There was nothing in him and his features that was similar to yours, yet there he was. Your father.
"In the kitchen," you told him solemnly. "See you later, dad."
"Ah yes," the older man smiled. It was quite grotesque, but he stood in your way. You couldn't go anywhere yet. "My little man's 18 now."
You just smiled, letting him hug you in a drunk manner.
Then you walked out, without looking back, brushing a handkerchief over the fresh shirt in hopes of getting rid of the sudden reek.
***
The corner of Garrison Lane and Witton Street came into view after a few minutes of walking, and the ornate Garrison pub with it. From where you stood, you could see how highly it was decorated. Beyond the pub was the working folk, muddy and tired. There wasn't an air of fear around them anymore, ever since the Shelbys evolved and went their separate ways. They lived in mansions now, occasionally dropping in to see how things were in Small Heath.
You couldn't help but feel bummed in a way.
You watched those people throughout your whole life, brushed shoulders with them every once in a while, and spoke highly of them. Never with your mother though. Never. She wouldn't hear of it.
Of Tommy Shelby, the leader of the gang (but now a respectable member of the Parliament) especially.
Just as you crossed to road, you surprised yourself by continuing your powerful stride even when Arthur Shelby emerged from the walls of the high-end pub. It used to be a hole, the pub, but you loved it. Still do.
You stepped aside to let him pass, tipping your hat toward him. It was razor free, and it had the eldest Shelby stopping in his tracks. "You a Peaky boy, eh? Could've sworn I've seen you before."
He didn't swear, you noted. Arthur looked to be in deep thought, looking into your clear blue eyes until you were uncomfortable. "Fucking hell…"
Ah, there he was. "I live down Watery Lane, mister Shelby. Just across the Betting Shop."
"Nah, it ain't dat," said Arthur, running a hand across his thick mustache.
"Arthur leave the boy alone."
It was a voice one would connect to only one man in the whole country.
Someone foreign the voice would cover with fear. Someone local, but one that rarely had come to contact with the voice it would cover with a light breeze of fear.
Shockingly enough, you felt absolutely fine.
Because there was something in Tommy Shelby's eyes that were like yours.
"Mr. Shelby," you said confidently, tipping your hat at the man.
"Y/N," he replied, shocking you into silence. "Happy birthday."
You almost choked on your own spit.
"Don't fuck with me," Arthur sliced in, "It's ya birthday, eh?"
Next thing you knew, an arm was thrown over your shoulders, and you were ushered in by Arthur Shelby.
With Tommy behind you.
***
13 YEARS AGO
Men were back from war and after years of constant worry, light seemed to shine upon the people of Birmingham. Despite those news and sudden arrivals, Violet Wright gave no shit when it came to keeping her 5-year-old boy quiet. They needed to see that the world was still good.
You beamed when your eyes spotted the arriving men, and you tipped your small hat every time a former soldier crossed your path. They found you amusing, the men, as they laughed and tipped their own hats back. There was innocence in your blue eyes, something that they all needed after what they've been through.
"Take care of him, eh?" One of the men told Violet. His eyes were trained on you, "You and Harry both."
"'Course we will," she promised, flashing that fake smile of hers.
They went their way after that, leaving her alone outside to wait for her husband. Everyone thought you were theirs, and no one stopped twice to notice the difference in your blue eyes and their darker ones. Even if they did, notice, there was rarely a man that matched your description.
One man though, noticed and matched.
"Y/N go," was all Violet said when her eyes locked with those of Thomas Shelby. It was 1914 all over again, only there was no rain and skimpy covered bodies.
"But mummy I was-"
"Now."
You were fairly smart for your age, and therefore knew when pouts weren't going to work. You slumped your shoulders, tipped your head down to your boots, kicked a lone stone and marched loudly into the house.
Violet thought she might die at that moment, hence why she almost collapsed when she saw Tommy stalk toward her. The march from his home to hers was fairly quick, and she cursed at herself for not moving into Harry's crammed flat when she had the chance to.
"Thomas I-"
He was in her face before she even finished. There was only one question on his mind, "Is he mine?"
"What the fuck are you-"
"Violet don't fuck with me, eh?" Said Tommy, "Is. He. Mine?"
"He is mine," she bit back. "He is my son!"
"And if you think I'll let you play any part of his life," she continued with vehemence, "I will not."
Violet Wright never spoke more clearly, "Leave."
What Tommy did was probably the biggest mistake of his life.
He left.
***
CURRENT
The Garrison almost looked like it was lit up just for you and your ability to live for 18 years straight.
You followed the two Shelby brothers across the pub, utterly oblivious to the way Tommy looked at you as you neared the bar. Hat off, you ordered what you craved.
"So," began Arthur, the more conversable out of the two. "Why are you here alone? It's your birthday."
He downed the contents of his glass, and so did you. Once the alcohol settled down in your throat you began, "My friend Joshua is up north for the weekend, and I didn't want to spend it with my mum so I'm here."
"Where's your dad?" Arthur asked, "Harry, right? I know da man. Nice lad. Bit drunk, but nice."
Arthur was even more oblivious to Tommy's eyes. If looks could kill, Tommy's brother would be dead in the canal.
"I have to say, you don't look much alike." He continued, his eyes switching between yours and Tommy's. "If I didn't know you were Harry's boy I never would have guessed."
"That’s because, Arthur," Tommy cut in, "He isn't Harry's son."
His words didn't register, "Excuse me?"
"No bloody way…" Arthur muttered.
"He's mine."
No more words could leave your mouth because of how loud Arthur's laughter was. You could only sit there and looked down on your drink because of how hard Tommy's eyes were on you.
Your life would be a lie then.
Your mother would be a liar.
What he just shared seemed more of a puzzle fit than anything else in your life.
It seemed like the truth.
It felt like truth.
What you did next surprised them all.
You downed the drink, feeling the bitter aftertaste of alcohol rush down your throat. You turned to your father, just now finding a true connection between you two, one that was more normal than anything and said, "Tell me everything."
And just like that, over the course of a single night you became a Shelby.
And it felt good because who wouldn't like to run a city?