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You knew you had made something of yourself when you received a letter requesting a performance for the Peaky Blinders. You were to be picked up and driven to their club in London and would be paid fucking 15 shillings. What the hell kind of town were you living in?
The letter arrives early Wednesday morning. That afternoon, you go to the market to purchase a new suit. When you get to the counter, however, the man disappears to the back and comes back a minute later with a suit over his arm. He hands it to you with a smile. You look from the suit to the man in confusion.
“Mr. Shelby thought you’d be by. Told me to give you this one.” He motions to the black striped silk. You could never afford this.
“On the house. Mr. Shelby doesn’t need to pay. Neither do you.” He smiles up at you.
“Thank you, sir. And give Mr. Shelby a thank you from me when you see him.”
“Of course, Mr. (L/N).”
You walk back home and try on the freshly pressed suit. It fits perfectly. It’s black with small dark grey vertical stripes. There’s a folded piece of paper in the pocket of the vest.
On the house. Thought you would look comely in stripes.
You shake your head and put the note back in the vest pocket.
You have all day tomorrow and most of Friday to do whatever you want before the performance. You decide to use the rest of the day to polish up your favourite piece: Violin Sonata in D minor; Opus 5, Number 12; nicknamed 'La Folia', by Arcangelo Corelli. An endearing and very expressive piece, perfect for this occasion.
When Friday afternoon arrives, you have finished polishing up your pieces of choice and are running through them a few times before you have to be to the club. You’ve chosen, in addition to ‘La Folia’: Concerto Number 5 in D major, Opus 22, 1st Movement by Friedrich Seitz, Concerto in A minor, Opus 3, Number 6, 3rd Movement by Antonio Vivaldi, Concertino Opus 15 by Ferdinand Küchler, Fantasia: The Boy Paganini by Edward Mollenhauer, and Concerto in A minor by Jean-Baptiste Accolay. If they aren’t impressed you might just quit playing altogether. Polishing all these dumb 3-page-long concertos in 2 days is absolutely a miracle. Good thing you’ve pretty much perfected seamless improvisation in your performance so they won’t know the difference if you do mess up. If Tommy was originally planning on paying you 15 shillings as a ‘reasonable amount’ (you’ve never made that much in a week), you’d think all this work polishing must be worth a little more than that. You obviously won’t demand or even accept any more than 15 fucking shillings, though.
You run through the pieces a second time and put your violin back in its case at 5 o’clock. You make some tea and eat an early supper of small sandwiches given to you by a kind woman on the street a few hours earlier. Telling about how she knew you were playing for the Shelbys in London tonight and wished you good luck. They were delicious. You wash the dishes and get dressed into the suit from Tommy. You pull on your best shoes and polish them up. When you look at the clock, it’s almost half past six already. You place your violin case near the front door and finish your tea in the kitchen before there’s a loud knock at the door.
You put the cup down and open the door to find none other than Thomas Shelby there, his now empty motorcar sitting idle in the road.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Sure am,” you reply as you grab the violin. Tommy leads you to the car and puts the violin in the back for you.
Once you’re both settled in he offers you a cigarette.
“Oh, sorry, I’m alright. Don’t like to smoke before playing, gets in the wood and ruins it.”
“Right, right.” He puts the unlit cigarette back in the pack and puts it in his pocket. “They’re expensive, aren’t they?” He questions as he pulls onto the street.
“Worth more than a flat these days,” you chuckle.
He nods in response.
How odd, that he would refrain from smoking just because he cares about the well-being of your violin.
A very strange way
, you think,
to show such care and respect for my instrument.
You remain in silence for most of the drive until after what seems like an eternity:
“What songs did you prepare?”
“Picked my favourites to polish up,” you grin, “Corelli, Küchler, Seitz… six total. Plus my usuals I’ve always got ready.”
“Never heard of Corelli. What’s the song called?”
“La Folia. It’s a Sonata in D minor.”
“Sounds promising,” he chuckles, “but is it interesting enough?”
“Oh, trust me, it’s a good one.” You reassure him, even though you know he’s joking around.
“Let me know which one it is.”
“I’ll play it first.”
He nods and pulls to the side of the road. You’ve arrived.
Tommy grabs your violin from the backseat and you walk inside together. He shows you where to stand and hands you a glass of water.
“You need a break, just take one. Don’t worry about it. I’ll check up and make sure you’ve got water.” He sighs and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Need anything else?”
“No, that’s alright. Thank you, Mr. Shelby. And thank you for the suit.”
“Of course, (y/n). And, please, just call me Tommy.” And with that, he walks away.
The violin case is on the floor so you bend down to open it and retrieve your bow first, tightening the bow hair and applying a fresh coat of your expensive rosin. Then you take out your violin. You check your fifths to make sure you’re still in tune from earlier, which you are.
You glance out to the full tables and find Tommy against the opposite wall, watching. You put your violin up on your shoulder, nod to Tommy, and launch into ‘La Folia’.
----
Once you’ve played though about half the pieces you’ve got, mixing in the ones you polished for tonight and ones you already could play, you put the violin back to just rest in the open case and drink the entire glass of water. You haven’t seen Tommy since the beginning of your set. Just then, he appears from nowhere, takes the glass from your hand, and disappears again. You decide to sit down on the stairs to the stage, where you’ve been playing, until Tommy gets back with more water. He returns a few minutes later with a full glass and sets it back down where it was on the small end table by the podium. Then he sits down next to you.
“How much longer do you want me here to play?” You ask as he checks his pocketwatch.
“Only an hour more. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” you tell him.
“Then Arthur will close up so I can get you home, eh?”
“Yeah,” you chuckle.
Tommy grins at you and puts his hand on your knee before standing up to disappear again.
“Break a leg,” he jokes, then walks away.
You take a sip of the water and take your violin and bow from the open case. You check your tuning again, it still hasn’t slipped. You start the last part of your set with the Küchler Concertino.
----
The clock strikes midnight and everyone’s gone. You loosen the hair on your bow, put your violin and bow away, and zip your case shut. You drink the rest of the water and take the glass to the kitchen, where Tommy and his brother John are having a very quiet conversation about something. You stand just outside, listening to what they’re saying for a minute. You can’t hear very well, they’re nearly whispering, but you hear something about 15 shillings and your name comes up a few times before you clear your throat and walk into the room with the glass. They turn to look at you and you put the glass near the sink with a few other glasses like it.
“Hope this can go here.”
“ ‘s just fine right there,” John smiles at you from across the room.
The brothers walk over to you and John extends a hand.
“Nice to meet you, I’m the arse’s brother,” he jokes, nodding to Tommy.
“John, is it?” He nods and you take his hand and give it a firm shake. “(y/n). Great to meet you too.”
“Your playing is wonderful, I have to say,” John compliments.
You laugh in response.
“Alright, alright. I’ve gotta get him home, it’s late.” Tommy chimes in.
“See ya ‘round,” John calls as you and Tommy leave the room.
“See ya,” you reply over your shoulder.
----
You arrive home around three in the morning. Tommy walks you to the door and you invite him inside.
You put the violin in the other room and, like a good host, tell Tommy he can smoke and ask if he would like some whiskey.
“I’d love some.”
You pour two glasses and he hands you a cigarette.
You sit across the table from him and place his glass in front of him. You pull your lighter from your pocket and light the cigarette.
Tommy places 17 shillings on the table in front of you.
“Keep the change,” he chuckles dryly.
Everyone knows you don’t argue with Thomas Shelby. So you don’t.
“Thank you, Tommy.” You put the money in your vest pocket along with the note from Wednesday.
You smoke and drink in silence until he asks, “You got a spare room?”
No, you don’t have a spare room. Or a fold out couch. You’ve never had anyone stay over. Ever.
“You want to stay the night?” you ask with a curious tone.
“If you’ll have me,” he grins.
“I don’t have a spare room.”
“Well then, I suppose we’ll have to share yours.”
“I suppose,” you sigh playfully.
You’re certainly not opposed to sharing a bed with Thomas Shelby. Not in the slightest.
Tommy notices your gramophone on the table in the living room and points to it.
“Do you have anything good?” he asks.
“Of course,” you snort. “What do you fancy? Vivaldi? Bach? Chopin?”
“Let’s hear some Chopin,” he replies.
You put on your favourite Chopin disk and Tommy gets up to extend his hand.
“Care to dance?” he asks.
You take his hand and slowly dance to the music. He doesn't know how to waltz, apparently, so you teach him.
“Imagine a big box you have to step in the corners of,” you explain. “You want your feet to glide rather than stomp.”
You show him the steps backwards for him to copy. He gets it perfectly the first try.
“See, you’re a natural!” you both giggle.
You take his hands again and the two of you continue to waltz until the disk is over.
You restart it and walk back over to Tommy as Chopin’s Waltz in E-flat major, "Sostenuto", B. 133. He’s standing in the middle of the room. Instead of offering to dance, he lifts your chin with his index finger, his touch feather light. He leans down to whisper in your ear, “I knew you’d look proper handsome in that suit.”
He takes his big, rough hands and places one on the back of your neck, the other on your cheek.
His bright, iceberg blue eyes pierce right through your soft (y/e/c) ones and you lean up to meet his lips.
He tastes of your cheap whiskey and his cigarettes. You can’t get enough. The gramophone long forgotten, you make your way to your bedroom and start undressing each other.
But then, Tommy realises himself. He pauses for a minute, considering the situation.
“I won’t fucking tell,” you assure him. Because you’re sure he’s having second thoughts.
“I know,” he says.
He pushes you onto your bed and kisses you deeply. Perfectly.
When he pulls away, he whispers, “I don’t care what they’ll say. I want you.”
It sends shivers down your spine and a pool of heat to below your stomach.
Tommy takes notice of it and chuckles lightly before pressing gentle kisses along your jaw.
“You’ll get everything you want tonight, my handsome prince.”