Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Turns out patience and time are two things they need in abundance. It’s gonna be at least a year before Campbell’s case comes to trial.  With his mum gone, Alfie moves Tommy from the sofa into the spare room — he wants to be clear that this arrangement don’t come with any expectations. Hopes, maybe. And fears, abso-fuckin-lutely, because he’s increasingly sure he’s been left holding one end of the tightrope Tommy’s balancing on. He ain’t sure who’s got the other end, and there sure as hell ain’t a net. 

Even once their tests come back clean the whole situation is awkward. They both brazen through it for their own reasons — Tommy because he seems hell-bent on hiding from the world and almost everyone he knows, and Alfie because … well ... his mum weren't too far off the mark. He’s fallen so hard he’s banged his head and forgotten himself entirely. 

At work he knows who he is. Wields his power as he always has, makes the lads jump to attention with a few well-chosen words or a simple click of 'is tongue. 

At home he’s less sure of himself. Less sure where the boundaries lie and whether he’s invited to cross ‘em. There’s a moat around Tommy Shelby and the drawbridge is pulled up tight — his head a fortress engaged in wars and sieges that Alfie can’t fathom at all. He’s aware of the constant phone-calls, the meticulous taking of notes, the way Tommy conducts his invisible orchestra from the comfort of Alfie’s living room. He rarely leaves the house, but he’s always on the move … pacing, muttering, smoking, sighing …leaving a trail of paper and mugs in his high-strung, fidgety wake. It’s a fuckin’ liberty is what it is, and irritating as all hell. 

Until it stops. Until Tommy stops. 

And the stillness that follows’ll drive Alfie to insanity far quicker than all the animated impatience ever could. 

He can tell as soon as his key’s in the lock … will feel the air thick with inertia and know that Tommy has severed his connection with the here and now. It’s like he’s underwater, visible but distorted; even sounds won’t seem to reach him unless you touch him carefully first. And every time it happens it takes Alfie back to the carpark, to Tommy wet and shivering, talking in riddles and then not talking at all. 

These mental vanishings become all the more concerning once he knows where Tommy was that night: how he jumped off Waterloo bridge only to be rescued by sheer damn luck. It’s one more thing that remains unspoken between them. (Alfie would have no idea at all if he hadn’t caught the lads watching mobile-phone footage filmed by some arsehole who whooped and swore as a grainy figure plummeted into the Thames). 

A subsequent internet search turned up an interview with the crew of the passing boat, whose shock at the jumper's sudden escape was only surpassed by their annoyance that the guy had run off with an anorak. Somehow, thank fuck, no one ‘ad recognised Tommy. Maybe not surprising, state he'd been in.

Alfie ain’t sure how best to deal with any of it. So he watches without judgement, as much as any man can, and starts to learn Tommy’s patterns. The way a silent day tends to be followed by a loud, disturbing night. Not that Alfie has anything to offer beyond some normal human contact, but Tommy has precious little of that, just meetings with his lawyer or the occasional flunky who turns up to do his bidding. 

They fall into a sort of routine. Alfie’s out before five every morning, back around noon with lunch. He discovers Tommy’s partial to the Taiwanese street food on the edge of Borough Market, and may or may not make a point of visiting more than business strictly requires. 

Mid-afternoon he’ll be off again for the long evening shift, leaving Tommy to berate various colleagues and members of the legal profession. By the time he gets back Tommy’ll be half-comatose on the sofa — even on a good day — having swapped the pursuit of enterprise and justice for the pursuit of quiet oblivion.

And it’s in those stolen moments that Alfie glimpses what might be. How loose-limbed Tommy looks at the bottom of a bottle — head tipped back against the sofa, throat bared. He tries not to think about how beautifully he’d loosen those limbs himself … how much more satisfying it would be for both of them without the whisky or gin. 

By day, he reckons things are improving. There are questions he’d like to ask, but he’s lived long enough to know there are some things best left unsaid. He settles for discussing the here and now, sharing more than is probably wise. Deep down he hopes Tommy might balance the scales by sharing something himself. Anything. What he’s been up to all day, what he’s working on with ‘is lawyer. Why he gets so many damn headaches and tries to pretend it’s nothing. 

But Tommy doesn’t share. He merely picks holes in Alfie’s business plan, prods and pokes and throws up question after awkward question until Alfie tells ‘im to, “fuck off, mate,” rather than admit he don’t ‘ave the answers. It gives him a strange little thrill every time Tommy catches him out. 

“Not givin’ me state secrets to you, am I? You planning on opening up in direct competition, hmm? That why you’re diggin’ around in me numbers?”

“Alfie, you asked for my—”

“Could be planning armageddon f’rall I know … ‘mount of time you spend on that laptop.”

And then Tommy’ll go moody and silent, and Alfie’ll change the subject, start regaling him with tales of all the idiots life consistently throws in his path. The butcher who tried to pass off 21 day-aged beef as 28 ... the new junior who thought it was funny to pull a carving knife on Luan. He weren't laughing when Alfie'd finished with 'im.

Today it was a traffic warden — ticketing him in a loading bay just off Euston Road. 

“Two fucking minutes, I kid you not. Okay, might’ve been ten, but that is not the point.” 

“What is the point?” Tommy asks, with a sigh that suggests he’s humouring a tiresome dinner guest. 

“Point is, I made him tear it up.” 

“The ticket?” 

“No, the bloody van. Of course the ticket!” 

Tommy's interest has clearly been piqued by the sheer preposterousness of this claim. “What did you threaten him with?” 

“You wound me. Do you know that?” Alfie splays a hand over his heart. “I merely signalled my displeasure.”

Tommy waits, lips pursed in expectation. Alfie leaves it a few seconds to increase the sense of drama before barking — suddenly and loudly — like an over-excited dog. Tommy, infuriating bastard that he is, barely flinches, looks at him like he is actually insane. So he does it again, like some stupid golden retriever trying to get a reaction (actually, golden retrievers are bloody intelligent, so that’s a nonsensical comparison. Although they do happen to hold the record for loudest recorded bark — which is a fact he feels compelled to share with Tommy). 

“So you stood in the street and barked like a bloody intelligent golden retriever?” Tommy shakes his head and a smile creeps onto his face. Slowly. As if the required muscles are tight from a lack of use. Which they must be, because in all the weeks he’s been here Alfie has never seen ‘em put to use. It completely changes the shape of his face, rounds his sharp cheeks into apples and reveals his upper teeth. Alfie's aware that he’s staring but can’t seem to stop, just like he can't get a proper breath, only shallow little fluttery things that don’t make it down to his lungs. 

“Probably scared the shit out of him,” Tommy says, and Alfie wonders what the flying-fuck he’s on about. All he can think of is how much he wants to lick that row of shiny teeth … feel the indents between them with the tip of his tongue … the contrast between plump lip and smooth enamel. 

“Yeah,” he says quietly. He turns and leaves the room. 

That smile is a rarity mind, most of the time Tommy’s sombre, holding himself together with whiskey and sheer force of will. Alfie takes some solace in the fact that he starts to relax a little. With Alfie at any rate — his jaw loosens and he makes conversation — unlike with other visitors around whom he’s cold and rigid. Alfie ends up feeling particularly sorry for poor Lizzie, who’s summoned too often to act as intermediary between Tommy and his family. She takes his clipped manners and frustrated tone with admirably good grace. 

“Don’t know why you put up with ‘im,” Alfie says the next time he shows her out.

Lizzie rolls her eyes. “Wish he’d do us all a favour and find someone to fuck him. I’d do it myself, but those days are gone.” She holds up the large diamond ring sitting proudly on her left hand and winks as she walks out onto the street. Alfie swallows down an irrational surge of jealousy and slams the door too hard.  

***

The infrequent evenings when both Tommy and him are in the house together are a special form of torture. The almost-domesticity of it. The pleasure of having someone to cook for, bounce ideas off, fuckin' grumble at the telly with … it's bloody nice, innit? If only he could leave it at that, enjoy it for what it is, but he’s too fuckin’ aware of everything — from how often Tommy licks his chapped lips, to the surprising breadth of his forearms. His hair is trimmed short again, leaving the back of his neck so tantalisingly exposed that Alfie could just skim it with his finger tips and feel the hairs bristle. Would Tommy let him?

He throws that question onto the heap alongside all the others, because everything is a question where Tommy is concerned. Where’s 'e been? What does he want? What is he planning next? He must trust Alfie on some level, he's still fuckin' here after all, but it’s a far cry from the level of intimacy Alfie craves.

Alfie’s never been one to settle, to take less than what he could ‘ave. He should stop torturing himself and get on with ‘is life, ask Tommy to move out. Would be far easier than reaching across the divide that’s opened between them. 

And then, one night it happens. Tommy throws his own line across the gulf, graceless as a grappling hook lobbed at a wall of rock. 

“Wanna fuck?” he says. 

And it catches Alfie off-guard, right? He’s just walked in the door from a late shift, and the honest answer would be yes. Hell yes. Never wanted anything more. 

Tommy's slumped on the sofa, as usual, a three-quarters-empty bottle beside ‘im and a vicious edge to his voice.

“No,” Alfie makes himself say. 

Tommy licks his teeth behind closed lips and looks away with all the insouciance of a shrug. It's not helping Alfie’s self-restraint, it really fuckin’ ain’t; he wants to show Tommy who he's messing with, teach him some fuckin’ manners.

“Then what the fuck do you want, eh?” Tommy asks. “What do you get out of this?” He’s furious, cheek twitching at the rejection.

Much as Alfie wants to soothe ‘im, he can’t give in to this. To the booze and the abruptness and the self-loathing. “Goodnight, Tommy,” he says. 

It happens again after that, Tommy’s need bleeds through when he lets his guard slip. In the kitchen at 2am, when Alfie comes home to find ‘im hanging onto the sink drinking water straight from the tap. He’s a mess, don’t know where he is, so Alfie helps him to bed — removes his shoes and gets him under the covers, ignoring the infantile protests. 

“Fuck me,” Tommy slurs, grabbing for Alfie’s neck. It hurts to see him like this, so utterly out of control, groping for what he thinks he needs with no idea what that is.

“Well ain’t you just a charmer?” Alfie says, running his fingers through Tommy’s hair.  

“All the charm of a doorstop,” Tommy mumbles. 

It hits Alfie strange, the way he says that, an inexplicable pang that makes him press a kiss to Tommy’s upturned temple. “Ask me when you’re sober,” he murmurs, but Tommy’s already passed-out.

The next time is a Sunday night and they’ve spent the evening together, watching some period drama that Alfie talked all the way through. Tommy drinks gin like it’s water throughout the course of the evening, but he don’t seem unduly affected. 

Until they’re on the upstairs landing, about to say goodnight, and Tommy snakes a hand around his waist and brings their faces together. Kisses him aggressively. And god knows Alfie wants to be kissed. 

He walks Tommy backwards till he hits the wall between their bedroom doors and holds him there, one hand behind his neck, the other stroking down the solid line of his flank. He digs his fingers into the softer flesh just above Tommy’s waistband and returns the kiss with a ferocity he didn’t mean to reveal. 

Tommy crumples against him, exhaling a muffled groan that resonates against the roof of Alfie’s mouth. It’s heaven and it’s hell. 

“Not like this, love,” he says when he has to hold Tommy up. He can’t ignore the taste of alcohol, or the buckling of Tommy’s legs. 

“I need it to hurt,” Tommy whispers, fingernails clawing painfully at whatever skin they can find — Alfie’s arms, the backs of his hands. It’s harder to put him to bed this time, when he’s clinging to Alfie’s knees. 

The following week is awkward. They move around the house like dancers — intimately aware of the other's presence but maintaining a choreographed distance. Tommy is angry with embarrassment, flicking tiny, vicious glares at Alfie whenever he steps too close. Which, to be fair, ain’t all that often, because Alfie don’t trust himself in the same room, has to shove his scratched hands deep in his pockets to stop himself from reaching out.  

It's agony. To see what Tommy needs so clearly, to feel it in the pit of his stomach and force himself not act. 

By Thursday Alfie’s exhausted, not just from the 4am starts but from the strain of maintaining this whole charade, of pretending he doesn’t want to empty every bottle in the house and tie Tommy down to his bed, stone-cold fucking sober, so he feels everything . God, how he’d make ‘im pay for his recklessness. Make him see there are far better ways to empty that restless head, far sweeter tastes than gin. 

He walks through the door early afternoon and heads straight up the stairs. The low hum of Tommy's voice filters through the floorboards, flitting from charming to offensive and back again on an endless stream of calls. 

The scale of Tommy’s life is intimidating, the sheer number of people and events for which he holds himself responsible. Alfie begins to wonder whether he dreamt that fleeting connection, whether someone like Tommy Shelby can ever really be known. But he clings to that moment of honesty, replays it over and over, how open Tommy looked as he came in Alfie’s arms. 

Alfie must drift off at some point because a knock at the front door hours later wakes him from a heavy sleep. He’s briefly disorientated, like stepping out of a matinee to find dusk has been and gone without ‘im and the sky’s already dark. 

There’s another knock at the door, and he wonders if Tommy’s out. A vague sense of worry creeps over him, until he hears the pad of reluctant feet in the hallway. 

"Well, well, well," says a woman's voice. "If Mohammed won't come to the mountain..."

"How did you find me?" Tommy says.

"I followed Lizzie, of course. How are you, Thomas?"

Alfie’s hackles rise.

“Fine,” Tommy answers although he sounds anything but.

“Aren't you going to invite me in?" 

There's a delay before the front door clicks shut, and Alfie's left to wonder whether she's been locked in or out. 

"Why aren't you testifying?" she asks. 

Fuck . Alfie pulls on trousers and tries to place the voice.

"So that's why you're here," Tommy says.

"Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?"

"You didn't come 'ere for tea."

"Fine, if that’s how you want to play it, brought my own anyway. Tell me this, Thomas. Why would you risk the bastard getting off?"

"Oh, so he’s the bastard now, eh? Thought that was my role."

"Well, it seems you've been superseded. Why won't you stand up in court?" 

Why indeed?, What the hell’s he been doing with that lawyer woman if he ain’t gonna show up in court? 

“And say what exactly?”

“The truth. That you were his victim too.”

He can hear Tommy’s derisive huff from here, can picture the hard blue eyes fending off that verbal punch. Either this woman don’t know Tommy well, or chose that word to wound. 

“If you don’t tell them what he did, they’ll say you were involved.”

"Leave it, Polly." 

Ah, so it’s her. The infamous matriarchal aunt. 

"They can force you to take the stand anyway."

"Not if we're engaged." 

What? What the fuckin’ hell …? Alfie opens his bedroom door and strains to hear what’s said. 

"But you're not, are you, Thomas? Chester never actually asked."

"Eight witnesses toasted us in champagne, Pol, and one of 'em was royalty." 

There's something mumbled that Alfie can't make out. Sounds like swearing, but not in any language he understands. 

"And you’re going to let your lawyer believe this? That you two are still engaged?"

"Why wouldn’t I?"

Oh Tommy, Tommy, Tommy … Alfie’s temples have started to throb. 

“Because you’re more credible than all those other boys. They’ve all been in trouble with the law.”

Tommy laughs. It’s a miserable sound. “And I haven’t, Pol?”

“You have status. And visibility. You're Robin fucking Hood. You dine with lords and ladies and give back to the poor.”

“Yeah, well not anymore. He’s made fucking sure of that.”

It's true, the scandal's cast a long shadow over Tommy's charitable deeds. There’s a painful silence spreading downstairs and he considers creeping out to the landing. But then Polly speaks again, this time in a softer tone.

"You used to put yourself between John and your father; John was barely any smaller than you, would've stood a better chance. Never stopped you though."

"What has this—"

"You used to protect Ada and Finn when your mother had one of her turns. You'd even stick up for the bloody Lees if you thought an injustice’d been done."

"Yeah, and what did it get me, Pol? Besides a hiding from half the estate?”

“It got you power . Respect. Believe it or not, you made people afraid to mess with the fuckin' Shelbys.” 

Tommy sniffs. "And if I tell ‘em what he did? What I let him fucking do? How much respect do you think I'll have then, eh?"

"Goddamn him for what he's done to you, Thomas."

If she calls him that one more time Alfie might fly down the stairs and lamp her. Woman or not.

"Was there anything else, Polly?"

This time it’s her who sighs. "There was, as a matter of fact. When were you going to tell me about the baby?"

"Who the fuck told you?” If Tommy sounded guarded before, now he sounds fucking aggressive. “Who was it, eh? Who ? Ada? Lizzie? I’ll fucking kill—”

"It was Laura, actually." Does Tommy have a kid? Who the fuck almighty is Laura? Alfie scratches his beard. “ She's trying to reopen the inquest, get the verdict reviewed."

"I know," Tommy says.

"She seems to think it was murder."

"It was.” His voice is so low that Alfie only just catches it. “It was Chester. I fucking know it was. S’not gonna bring her back.” 

Snippets of Tommy’s car park rambling are coming back to Alfie. He’s trying to put two and two together, but coming up with nineteen. 

“Why?” Polly asks. "Why would Chester—"

"To stop me being with her. Because he knew about the pregnancy long before I did. He knew everything. All our fuckin’ business. And any bits 'e didn’t like he … he fixed."

“But Grace’d already left you?”

“See? Even you don’t believe me. What chance is there with a jury?”

"I didn't say I didn't bel—"

"You didn’t have to."

“I'm sorry about the baby, Tom.”

“Why? I'd have made a shit father.”

“You wouldn't have been like him.”  

“Yeah well. We'll never know, will we? You still want that fucking drink?”

When he hears them head towards the kitchen, Alfie makes his move. He feels sick at what he’s just heard, but he can’t hide up here all night. He heads downstairs to the kitchen in time to see Tommy pouring whiskey into two glasses, pushing one across the small wooden table to his aunt. Fucking families.

“The boys are worried, Thomas. John’s a liability, plotting all sorts of retribution and threatening anyone in uniform. And Arthur … well ... Arthur’s Arthur. He isn’t taking it well. He needs you. Needs to see you’re okay.”

“And what if he’s not okay?” Alfie says from the doorway. “What will poor Arthur do then? Some fuckin’ big brother he is.”  

“So this is him, I take it?" Polly says, speaking directly to Tommy. She crosses her legs and looks Alfie up and down like she’s deciding whether to bid on him at auction. 

“Yeah, this is him,” Alfie answers. He wonders what Tommy’s told his family, not that he really cares. All he knows is that they liked Campbell far too much and Tommy don’t wanna talk to ‘em.  

"And what is this exactly?" she asks, waving a finger between him and Tommy with a barely hidden sneer.

"Sorry, didn't catch your name," Alfie says. He squints at her with an exaggerated furrow of his brow that he hopes conveys his contempt. She knows as well as he does that they spoke on the phone before.  

"Polly,” she says. “Polly Gray." 

"Well, Polly Gray. This ” — he waves his own finger exactly as she did — “is someone not making demands. Not sticking his nose in where it ain’t wanted or expecting anything."

“Quite the good Samaritan aren’t you?”

“Jewish, actually,” he says. "Although I believe there are 800-or-so modern-day descendents of the Samaritans smattered throughout the world. Most of 'em are considered Jewish by the state of Israel, so I won’t take offence.”

Polly rolls her eyes and slugs down her large whisky in one; Tommy looks like he’s trying hard not to smirk. 

“Does he always talk like this?” Polly asks.

“No,” says Tommy. “Sometimes he barks.”

***

Polly leaves soon after, and Alfie fills the kettle. He looks out at the small back garden and is struck afresh by that matinee feeling, the realisation that time and events have shifted in his absence. 

A fox slinks down the path, triggering the outside-light to glare across the lawn. It stops to stare at Alfie through the glazed back door, eyes eerily bright and steady. 

“Bold as brass,” Tommy says.

Alfie’s shocked that he’s still there, but doesn’t turn; he’s locked in a staring contest with the fox. “Nah, he ain’t bold, mate. He’s fuckin’ terrified.”

Tommy shifts in the chair behind him, sips his drink.

“Thinks if he stands there long enough he might get fed a morsel.”

"Doesn't know you very well then," Tommy says quietly.

The fox gives up. Slinks away while Alfie makes his tea. “So,” he says, turning back towards Tommy. “You’re not gonna testify?”

"No," Tommy says.  

“What is it you're so afraid of?”

“M’not afraid.”

Alfie's surprised to find he believes him. He doesn’t look afraid. He looks ... tired. Resigned. “Then what? Why’re you protecting him?”

Tommy reaches over to pour himself another generous drink. And much as Alfie wants to stop him, now probably ain’t the time. 

“S’not him I’m protecting." Tommy rubs at his eyes, long and hard, fighting some internal battle over how much to say out loud. “Me brothers,” he finally says. 

“Arthur?”

“And Finn and John. I don’t want them to know.”

Alfie takes the seat Polly vacated. “Know what?” he asks quietly. 

“That I did it to protect them … to start with anyway.” Tommy slumps onto the table, head resting on his folded arms. He sighs so deeply that Alfie wants to rest a hand on his spine, rub between his shoulder blades. “He arrested Finn a few years ago  — then rang me to make a deal.”

“Let me guess, Finn’s freedom for a fuck?”

“Yeah,” he almost whispers. “Finn was just a stupid kid. Still is. But Chester planted 22 wraps of heroin in the car he stole.”

“Intent to distribute,” Alfie mutters. Malicious bastard.

“And then Arthur got arrested and with his record 'e was looking at a long stretch. John shot someone he shouldn’t have …"

"And Chester wanted the same?"

"Wanted more. Every time. Wanted … wanted—”

“Yeah, okay,” Alfie says. “I get the picture.”

“They can’t know,” Tommy says, sitting bolt upright, as if he thinks Alfie might run off and ring ‘em right this bloody second. “Arthur isn’t stable; if he ever found out what I did he’d … fuck … I don’t fucking know … he just can’t, alright? None of 'em can.” 

Alfie is stunned into silence. It’s not like he expected Tommy to relish the thought of standing up in court. It’s just that, if he’s honest, he’d assumed it was down to pride. Or shame. And maybe it's those things as well, but nothing's ever that simple with Tommy. There's always so many layers. “So all this is to protect people who’ve paid you no heed for months?” 

“They're my family, Alfie.”

“Yeah. And they left you high and dry in the hands of that cunt for years.”

Tommy gives him a withering look and raises his eyebrows. 

“Forgive me for pointing this out, mate, but most of your family seems to think you’re a fucking prick." 

Tommy shrugs. “They always have. But they need me all the same.”

"And you'd rather protect them from the truth than help put that fucker away?”

“Oh he’ll go down,” Tommy says, and his voice is black as coal. “He’ll fucking pay for what he did. To Grace. To those kids. He’ll pay for more besides, I’ll make damn fucking sure of that."

"How?" Alfie asks.

Tommy clears his throat. "I have a plan.” 

"Go on."

***

The plan is ambitious to the point of lunacy. Alfie, who prides himself on being sharp as a cleaver and twice as fast, struggles to follow the twists. There are bent port staff in Antwerp and bent coppers in Scotland Yard... containers of pineapple stuffed with cocaine … lorries and middle-men and regular routes and drop-offs with street-gangs somewhere on the A12. Tommy’s been tracking it all. 

“So you’re honestly tellin' me that these drug lords use the same drop-off routine every month?’

“Yes,” Tommy says, impatiently. “They’re jumped up fucking amateurs. At least in that respect.”

“So why the fuck ain’t they been stopped before?”

“Because the whole thing fucking stinks.” 

And somewhere, amidst all that intelligence, is the key to Tommy's revenge: A copper on the inside, some counter-bribery and a few well-timed, carefully-placed threats. Tommy believes he can get assets frozen, confessions signed and a plea-bargain that lands some very nasty men in the same prison wing as Campbell. 

From what Alfie knows, nasty is a terrifying understatement where the Hellbanianz are concerned, but then Tommy already knows that.

“Fuuuuuck me,” Alfie says when he’s done.

There are plenty of things he’d like to ask, but perhaps it’s best he don’t know. Tommy seems strangely deflated given he’s just revealed his grand plan. 

“Tell me about Grace,” Alfie says quietly. 

“She’s gone,” Tommy says. “And none of this proves it was Campbell.”

There’s a long silence. 

“He told me, ya know. When he had my tie round my throat at that fucking charity event.” Tommy stops and sniffs in that way he does when he’s trying to hide emotion. “Told me that Grace fought much harder.”

“He admitted it?”

"Yes," Tommy says, but his guard’s back up. He swerves off to talk about the pregnancy, (never calls it a baby), about how it’s the key to applying to the High Court for a judicial review of the inquest. “We’ll get an open verdict at best, but it might help her family.”

“Who also think you’re a prick.”

Tommy smirks. “Oh, they think far worse than that. I was always low-life scum to them. Even before I cheated on their perfect daughter — with a man.”

"Tommy, I'm sure I don't need to tell you this, but it wasn't infidel—"

“Don't,” he snaps. "I put her in harm's way. I was a fucking shit to her."

It takes all Alfie’s self-control not to contradict him. Instead, he gets up to make his third mug of tea. Makes one for Tommy an’all. 

“She was terrified of the people I was mixed up with … ”

“With good reason,” Alfie mumbles. The Albanian connection makes his blood run cold. He knows their methods, knows how hard it’s been for Luan to extricate himself from their grasp. Tommy’s lucky to ’ave got away with a cracked skull and a few broken bones. 

“That when the painkillers started?” he asks, fishing out the teabags. 

“Guess so,” Tommy says. "I kind of lost it, after she died. Stopped sleeping. Took a lot. I … I don’t remember very clearly, but I know I went to him.”

Alfie’s teeth are clenched tight, spine locked up at the thought of that bastard with his hands on Tommy in that state, that headspace … 

“I wanted to feel something,” Tommy says. He digs his hands into his eyes and keeps them there, like some insight or explanation might be printed on his eyelids. “I don’t know. I just—” 

“I don’t wanna know,” Alfie says. It comes out sharper than intended but he really doesn’t want to hear some shitty explanation that won’t even begin to touch reality. All these weeks of wondering and now 'e wants Tommy to shut the fuck up. “You don’t have to explain,” he says, trying to soften the impact. But it’s too late, he can see the blow’s landed. 

“Sorry, you don't need this. I’ll move out,” Tommy says quietly. “Should've done it weeks ago. I’ve let it go on too long.”

Fuck. Fuckin'ell. Why's he saying this now? Just when they're getting somewhere? When he's drinking tea and talking more than he's ever done before? 

Tommy drops his hands, slowly, picks up his empty whiskey glass and twists it back and forth. “I could see you like before,” he says. “At the playroom. I could pay.”

Alfie’s guts turn to ice. “Tommy,” he says in a low voice. 

“I know you still see other clients. I’ll just be one of ‘em eh?”

“Tommy,” he says more forcefully. This time it’s meant as a warning, and Tommy’s eyes flick up. “I don’t want you as one of my clients.” 

“Fine.” Tommy says. The sky’s pinkening behind him with the earliest signs of dawn. He looks stone cold fucking sober, which is dangerously untrue. 

“But I want you in my life.” 

“Just never when I ask you, eh?” 

“What have you asked me, hmm? To fuck you? To hurt you? When you’re so pissed you can hardly stand up? I'm not him, am I?”

“I fucking know that!”

“Do you? Do you really? Cause you seem hellbent on using me to further your own destruction. Is that what you want from me, Tommy? Is that all I am to you?”

Tommy taps his fingers on the table and nods slowly to himself, as if Alfie’s proven something he suspected all along. A petulant smile widens his lips but leaves the rest of his face untouched. 

“You’re a fucking coward, Tommy. I saw it the first time I met you … hiding your desperation behind your fancy clothes, your stainless steel fuckin’ jaw. Glaring at me while he beat you.” Good god how Alfie’d beat him now if he had a paddle in his hand. Slap that twisted smile right off his face. “S’all a fuckin’ facade, innit? A very pretty one, granted, till you care to look through the windows and see the roof is caving in.”

The colour drains from Tommy’s face, the smile quickly follows. "Maybe I am a coward” — he stands up suddenly, sending his chair crashing onto its back — “but if I am then you are too." 

For some reason Alfie feels winded. “Tommy I—”

“Fuck off, Alfie.” 

“Oh it’s fuck off now is it? Not fuck me, Alfie? Hurt me, Alfie? I’ll fuckin-well pay you, Alfie?”

Tommy squints fury at ‘im.

“Fine by me. I’ll fuck off, mate. Due at Smithfield anyway.” 

He fetches his keys from the shelf and throws back the rest of his tea. The cold dregs make him want to gag but he swallows them with a wince and slams his mug back on the table. Tommy’s still watching him, infuriating bastard, his face a series of tide-marks like the beach after a storm. He looks fucked, maybe they both do.

“When you can talk to me without the drink, then we’ll fucking talk.” Alfie tries to say it calmly, as an olive branch of sorts. 

“Oh I think we’ve said it all,” Tommy says. 

And Alfie should ‘ave learnt by now — he’s seen it several times — that right when Tommy looks like he can't take it anymore is when he’s at his most vicious.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gone by the end of the week. You can move your mother back in.”

“What the fuck is that s’posed to mean?”

“Whatever you want it to, Alfie.”  

Alfie pushes past him, grabs his donkey-jacket from the wall and slams the front door on his way out. 

The fox is standing right outside, blocking his way to the van. 

“Oi!” he snarls, but the bloody thing stands its ground, forcing ‘im to step around it. He feels watched as he makes his way down the path, hands shaking so much it takes him several tries to open the goddamn van.

***

It’s probably for the best, Tommy moving out at the weekend, because Alfie can’t take any more of these broken nights. Stupid to be angry at a bloke for having nightmares, but here he is all the same — tight-limbed and seething at half-three in the morning — as if Tommy was thrashing deliberately to remind ‘im he’s still here. 

When the thrashing finds a voice he throws off his duvet. It’s the same low-grade panic he’s heard many times, but it still freezes the skin on the back of his neck. He heads to the bathroom to take a piss and top up his water-glass. He leaves the tap running while he drinks; the splash of water on porcelain drowns out the other sounds. Maybe he is a coward. 

His reflection looks unimpressed as it stares back from the bathroom mirror, the lines on his forehead reminding ‘im that patience and time have a price. Same as everything else in this life.

The muttering’s stopped by the time he dares turn off the tap; maybe he’ll leave the water on Tommy’s bedside. He rubs his eyes, opens the door and almost jumps out of his skin when he finds Tommy on the landing.

“Fuckin ‘ell,” he gasps. 

Tommy visibly shrinks, startled and too sleepy to hide it. The hair’s stickin’ up on the back of his head, grey t-shirt damp in a line that runs from his sternum to his navel. “Sorry,” he says, voice dry as his flaked lips. 

Alfie holds out his water instinctively and Tommy cocks his head, as if assessing what that means. It’s several moments before he takes the glass and empties it in one.

“Thanks,” he says, handing it back. 

Alfie knows he ought to go back to bed. He’s done his bit, Tommy’s fine. He puts the glass down on the sink behind him and intends to head for his room. Thing is, he can’t take his eyes off the water on Tommy’s upper lip, glistening in the greyish light that passes for pitch-black in London. His whole face looks blurred, puffed with sleep (or the lack of it). Even his cheekbones are pinch marks rather than the usual blades.

“I need to” —Tommy gestures past him, towards the bathroom— “I need to take a piss.” 

“You have no idea what you need, mate.” 

Fuck. He said that out loud. 

This could be a mistake of monumental proportions, but Tommy’s barefoot in front of him, soft and damp with sleep. There’s only so much self-restraint one man can exercise. 

Tommy seems at a loss, eyelids slung too low to properly hold Alfie’s stare. “I need to piss,” he repeats. 

And damn Alfie’s impulse control, it’s abandoned him entirely. Whether it’s months of pent-up frustration or the fact that there’s nothing left to lose. An opportunity has presented itself and he’s damn well going to take it.

“No,” he says with a shake of his head. He angles his body to bar the way, leans one shoulder on the doorframe.

Confusion skitters over Tommy’s face, more than he’d ever let show in his fully conscious state. “I said, I need to piss.”

“And I said, no.” Alfie’s voice is firm enough this time for there to be no room for doubt. This ain’t a misunderstanding.

Tommy pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes a little clearer when his hand drops back to his side. “There’s no other fucking bathroom.”

“Hold it,” Alfie says. 

Tommy inhales sharply through his mouth, lips poised on the cusp of a why for several long moments before he schools ‘imself and swallows the objection. 

“I want you to hold it, Tommy.”

He watches realisation unfurl, like a note passed under the desk being unfolded and read in secret. Alfie folds his arms across his chest and resists the urge to press further, to back Tommy into the wall and take his decision away. 

But Tommy’s alert now, ain’t he? Those haunting eyes crawling out from beneath the veil of whatever terrors they‘ve seen. The air between them prickles with fresh sweat, and for an awful second Alfie’s sure he’s lost him. He breathes deeply, not sure if it’s the scent of arousal or fear. Maybe both, lord knows one feeds the other as far as Tommy’s concerned.

“You can do that, can’t you, Tommy? You can hold it in? For me?” Please, god, take the challenge. Follow where I lead. I’ll make it worth your while, darling. I’ll show you what you need.

Tommy’s eyes flick up to catch Alfie’s and drop straight back down to the floor. “Yes,” he whispers softly, and Alfie’s chest implodes. 

It’s all he can do to maintain some composure as he reaches for Tommy’s hand — warm and damp like the rest of ‘im as he laces their fingers together. The few steps to Alfie’s bedroom have never felt so far.

As soon as they’re through the door he pulls Tommy close, one hand round the back of his neck. He’s so warm ... and yet he’s shivering … heart thudding against Alfie’s chest. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. Alfie has to close his eyes, overwhelmed with a deep yearning — like nostalgia registering in parallel for all those wasted fucking nights.

“Good boy,” he says quietly. “Good fucking boy.” 

Tommy’s breath stutters over his teeth.

Alfie could hold him like this for hours, just savouring the wide-eyed expectancy, the feel of warm hands on his back. Impatience gets the better of ‘im, impatience and a long denied surge of need. He toys with the waistband of Tommy’s trunks, slides hands over the smooth fabric until he’s cupping the generous curve of Tommy's arse. They’re pressed so close there's no denying the arousal that lies between them. 

Even so, Tommy's slow to respond when Alfie brings their lips together — as hesitant with his tongue as he is with his hands, which have slipped down to rest at Alfie's waist. Something about the lightness of touch makes Alfie's stomach flip, settles a weight on his shoulders. Responsibility. It doesn't feel like a burden, it feels right, like slipping into an old coat and remembering how well it fits. 

Soon Tommy’s kissing back — pliant, but complicit — mouth open wide as a fledgling demanding to be fed. Alfie takes his time exploring, licking over every surface, from the fullness of Tommy’s lips to his vicious little tongue. 

“S'okay,” he says, when they break for air, and Tommy’s breathing shudders. “I’ve got you, don't I?” A damp puff of agreement moistens his collarbone. “You’re gonna lay down for me, Tommy. You’re gonna be so good.”

Tommy lets himself be guided backwards, clumsy and unco-ordinated, clinging onto Alfie’s henley as he's laid down on the bed. Alfie crawls carefully over him, his mind awash with all the things he could do. Will do.

“You want me to make you feel good, sweetheart?” Tommy looks up at ‘im warily, seemingly lost for words. "It ain't a trick question, Tommy. You want me to make you come?” 

A pause and a tight little nod is all 'e gets in return, so Alfie moistens his thumb and runs it over Tommy’s lower lip. 

“I need to hear you say it, darlin’." He pulls the plump flesh down with the pad of his thumb, pressing against Tommy's teeth. "You want me to make you come?”

Beneath him, Tommy strains. He looks cross, or maybe frustrated. “I want you to fuck me,” he says, turning his face away. “Just fuck me. Please.” 

Alfie smiles and kisses the parts of Tommy's face he can still reach — a stubbornly upturned cheekbone, the outer corner of his eye. He feels alive with arousal, more present in his own skin than he has been for weeks. “Don't worry, I'll be more careful with you than you ever are with yourself.”

“I don’t need you to be careful."

Alfie pushes up on his arms, opening space between them. “I think we’ve already established you are a terrible judge of what you need.”

He ducks to mouth at Tommy’s neck, kissing a line from behind his ear right round to the dip of his throat. Tommy rolls his head and squirms delightfully, and Alfie takes his hands, raising them one by one to rest above his head.

“Leave them here,” he says, pressing them firmly into the mattress. 

A calm descends upon him as he watches Tommy’s gulping swallow, a razor-sharp sense of focus that he trusts to see him through. 

He wants to do everything to this man, wants to comfort ‘im and make ‘im scream and comfort ‘im again. 

He takes his time exploring Tommy's chest, bunching the t-shirt under his arms and pinching his tight little nipples. Beneath him, Tommy twists and bucks, breathing sharply through his mouth, until his body's littered with wet, pink marks and his underwear’s round his knees. He looks ravished; Alfie's barely started.  

Every inch of this delicate body has already been committed to memory, played over a hundred times or more in the safety of Alfie’s head — the compact mass of his shoulders, the slim strength of his legs — everything looks softer here, in the dim bedisde light.

"Look at you," Alfie says, running a hand down one lean thigh. 

Tommy shivers.  

"Are you warm enough?" 

If Tommy knows the answer, he doesn't seem able to reply. Alfie wonders at what point Tommy grew so out of touch with his body. He pulls his henley over his head and lays it over Tommy, only mildly disappointed to be covering his chest. 

"You keep your arms where I left them," he says. "If you move them, I won’t be happy." 

“Okay.” Tommy looks deeply suspicious as Alfie crawls backwards to settle between his parted thighs. 

Alfie hooks a hand under each of Tommy’s knees and spreads his legs out wide. He leans down and proceeds to do what he’s thought about far too many times — lick a slow, hot stripe up the underside of Tommy’s cock. It’s every bit as satisfying as he's imagined. Tommy lifts his knees and bites his lip and lets out a long unsteady breath. Alfie waits for him to go slack, then takes him fully into his mouth, sinking down as far as he can. He pauses to savour the feel of flesh at the back of his throat, before sliding his lips all the way back up and letting him slip free. 

He repeats the motion, careful not to let his lips touch Tommy’s skin until they close around the base. He pulls up with one long, delicious suck until gravity takes over and drops Tommy’s cock heavily onto his stomach. 

Alfie’s never understood why fellatio is seen as a submissive act; there are few things that give him as much control as a cock between his teeth. 

He dips and takes Tommy in again, starting low in the musty thatch of black hair and pulling up so, so slowly ... letting Tommy's weight spring free. He takes him in again. And again. And again. He can feel the tendons tightening behind Tommy’s knees, feet arching, hips lifting off the mattress to chase the warmth of Alfie’s mouth. 

So he stops, reluctant to push too far, or lose control of the rhythm. His mind's already swimming with everything else he wants to do.

“Fuuuck me,” he says, kneeling up and wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist. “You’re fucking perfect, darling.” He looks at Tommy — open-mouthed, legs still obediently splayed — and feels like a child in an unattended sweetshop. 

He gives Tommy a moment to calm himself as he reaches over to the bedside drawer. He returns with lube in hand and uses Tommy’s legs to haul him further down the bed, till his arse is nestled close against Alfie’s thighs. 

Strange not to know 'im like this — from the inside — to have a clearer idea of how he responds to pain than pleasure. He knows that Tommy wants both, thinks they belong together, but does he know that pleasure can be given? That it don't always have to be earned?  

He slicks his fingers generously and sets out to prove a point.  "Let me in eh, beautiful," he says pressing against Tommy’s hole.

Alfie's well aware that one finger would have made for an easier start, but easy really ain't the point he wants to make. Besides, he likes the way Tommy's brow furrows as he struggles against the blunt pressure of two. He puts up a delightful show of resistance but Aflie doesn’t relent until he’s three-knuckles deep, palm snug against the smooth skin behind Tommy's balls. The heat is utterly thrilling.  

Tommy glances down and looks away when he catches Alfie's eye. Too bad he don't like being watched, because Alfie's a fine observer of what people don't want 'im to see.  

He pushes deeper, a strong, relentless pressure that forces Tommy up the bed, makes his hips curl and his stomach clench and his whole face tighten up. 

When Alfie relents, he exhales with relief, hands opening and closing above his head. 

Alfie twists his fingers, rubbing tiny circles with his fingertips until Tommy's cock twitches. 

"Like that hmm?" he says. Tommy immediately closes his eyes and squeezes hard, kicking out with his heels. He looks furious, not just reluctant to acknowledge his pleasure, it's as if he's terrified of it. As if admitting to something that feels nice might be taken down in evidence, used against him in court.  

It's obvious enough, Alfie s'poses, but he ain't gonna stand for it here, in his own fuckin' bed. He digs his fingers into the spot he's been teasing until Tommy bites back a pained sound. It's a little mean, undoubtedly, puts pressure on his bladder, but Alfie can't help testing. Tommy’s as reluctant to vocalise his pain as he is to admit to his pleasure. 

And Alfie knew that as well, from when they played before, but he hoped things might be different without Chester’s prying eyes. He keeps up the deep pressure until Tommy shouts out, "fuck!"

"So you 'aven't lost your voice entirely."

Tommy clamps down so fiercely on Alfie's fingers it's honestly impressive. 

"Stop that, sweetheart," he says. But Tommy clenches more, bucks his hips and spasms like he’s not even in control.

"I mean it," Alfie says, voice pitched deliberately low. "You tryin' to break my fingers? It ain't a bloody fight."

"Fuck, you," Tommy gasps, "I need to piss."

"And you can, treacle, of course you can. When I'm good and fuckin' done. When you've learned to loosen up, and stopped using these muscles like teeth."

He moves his fingers inside Tommy to illustrate exactly which muscles he means and, sure enough, they spasm ... and flutter ... and spasm again. Tommy stretches his neck upwards and murmurs a jittery stream of curses.

"Yeah. Point made, I think." Alfie pulls his fingers out slowly, and holds there for a moment. Tommy, predictable little thing, clenches around the tips.

"Ah ah ah," Alfie shakes his head and pulls out all the way. He kneels up and a flicker of panic crosses Tommy’s face. as Alfie kneels up on the bed. 

“I’m not going anywhere, darling, just want to see you better.” He folds Tommy’s right leg against his chest, holding it behind the knee.  

"We're gonna try that again," he says. "And this time, you're gonna behave."

Tommy swallows and looks for all the world like his face is about to crumple. And that is new, ain’t it? The first sign of something real.

"It's not your fault, it's mine, Tommy. You didn't do anything wrong. I should've explained the rules."

He brings his clean thumb up to Tommy's mouth, traces a line round his parted lips. "I am gonna fuck you with my fingers. And you are gonna let me. You're gonna take what I give without question...without bucking your hips or pulling away or clamming up like a vice." 

Tommy's tongue flicks out, glancing the tip of Alfie's thumb. "Yes ... I just need to—"

"You're gonna try real hard—"

"I'll try. Alfie. I really need to—"

“And if you forget, then I will remind you, won't I?”

He knows what Tommy wants to say, poor thing thinks he's desperate, but desperate’s a concept he’ll be far more acquainted with by the time Alfie's finished with 'im. "You listening to me, Tommy?"

“Yes, but I—”

“Not tryin’ to change the subject?”

"No, I just—”

“We’ll talk about having a piss again when I decide it’s allowed. For now, you’re gonna lie back and do exactly as I say."

Tommy shudders and closes his eyes. 

“There,” Alfie says appreciatively, “not your decision to worry about.”

He starts, again, slides two fingers in and feels Tommy fight to relax. 

"That's it, bear down, love, let me in."

He moves his fingers slowly. Out and back in. Out and back in, a little further each time. The muscles slacken in increments with each carefully insistent thrust. He’s trying, clearly trying.

"That's it, good boy," Alfie murmurs, more to himself than anything, but the words make Tommy spasm again, his whole face screwing up. Alfie withdraws immediately and slaps him hard across the arse. Tommy yelps, more shock than pain, as the message sinks in.

"Relax and show me, treacle," he says, thumbing over Tommy's tightly furled ring. "Show me how soft you can be."

Tommy lets out a shuddering breath and bucks his hips; his hands ball into fists. 

Alfie's quick to deliver another slap. "You're not concentrating, Tommy. Show me again."

He watches Tommy’s arse flutter as he lets Alfie’s fingers back in. He does well for several minutes, let’s Alfie quicken the pace, takes to the gentle twisting motion with a wonderful show of restraint. His limbs stay limp, his arse soft, and he almost loses himself, before something drags him back into his head and he clenches and tightens again. 

Alfie slaps him twice as hard, the other cheek this time and watches the shock register on Tommy's face. It melts into lust too soon and makes Alfie wish he had something crueller. He could improvise he s'poses — find a slipper; make a loop from a length of flex. He wants to hear the sharp gasp that comes from a more biting pain. But deep down he knows it's too much, knows it’ll only make Tommy fight harder, more intent to keep everything in. That ain’t the point of tonight, so the next time Tommy clenches he resists the urge to redden his arse some more, opting for a glare of frustration which seems to be reprimand enough.

Tommy does well in the end. Lets Alfie stroke him gently till his head rolls from side to side … till his knees pull up and his arse stays soft and he’s gasping pretty sounds. He feels fucking amazing ... tender and pliant, pulse tapping against Alfie's fingers like the flick of an elastic band. There comes a point, after twenty minutes, where the strain starts to show on his face, when the open-mouthed display of pleasure is replaced with a furrowed brow. 

"You still wanna use the bathroom, Tommy?"

"Yes,” he pants, “fucking hell …"

"Choice is yours sweetheart. You can take a piss right now and we can call it a night. Or " —Tommy whimpers— “you can hold on a little longer whilst I fuck you. And then, if you're a very good boy, I'll let you come as well.  Choice is yours, sweetheart.”

Tommy groans and rolls his head, eyes clamped tightly shut. Alfie bites his way down Tommy’s right thigh.

“You take a moment to decide, darling,” Alfie says, shuffling down the bed. He moves Tommy’s leg out to the side and noses down to the hole he’s been working, now softly swollen from his attentions. 

He can smell his own shower gel — pepper and ginseng; the familiarity is thrilling, but he seeks out Tommy's own scent, finding it in the fresh sweat collecting behind his balls, in the shining crease of his arse. He buries his nose there, spreading Tommy's legs wide to inhale his most private stench — rich and musty, like freshly turned earth. 

"Relax, remember?" he warns before licking over the beautifully-widened ring of muscle, slicking the hair back firmly with the flat of his tongue. He manages three or four similar moves before Tommy squirms against him, letting out such a pitiful sound that Alfie’s sympathy kicks in. 

“Oh darling. You made your decision?”

Tommy arches off the bed and jumps like he’s been electrocuted when Alfie lays a hand on his stomach to guide him back down. 

“You gonna hold on just a little bit longer? Hmm? Let me fuck that sweet little hole?”

“Yes,” he pants. “Yes. Please. Fuck … fuck. Yes.”

He babbles away, the same three words in differing order as Alfie gets to his knees. He lines himself up and slides into Tommy in one slow, delicious glide.

And fuck, Tommy’s so fucking good… so soft, resisting what must be an overwhelming urge to tighten. He breathes through his mouth, jaw slack, eyes open and lets out a deep, sinful groan. Alfie has to hold still for a moment as he positions Tommy’s legs, hooking them over his shoulders so that he’s almost folded in half. 

He’s careful to hold his own weight up as he rocks his hips gently forward. Teasing. Testing. Nothing but tiny movements. And Tommy is so open, so unguarded — every wince and gasp and blissful moan laid out for Alfie's consumption. 

It makes him greedy, makes him want to take everything. He stops avoiding Tommy's prostate, changes the angle a fraction and there, three tries later he's got it. No mistaking the way Tommy groans. And the clench. God, fuck, the strength of it. The way his arse clings onto Alfie, drags as he pulls out...it'd send lesser men to oblivion in seconds, and Alfie ain’t sure he can last. 

He slows, catching his breath. "Now none of that, hmmm? Soft as butter, darling." He pulls out and tilts forward again. Again. Slow and perfectly aimed. 

And Tommy, bless him, is being pulled apart at the seams. He fights it, desperate to hold together, trying to find his voice. "Don't…" he whines "d-don't."

"Don't what?" Alfie says, driving in again. Tommy's voice rises in panic, his last stitches coming undone.. "Don't! Please...don't..." 

"Shhhh," Alfie strokes his hair. "Don't what hmm? Don't stop? Is that it?"

"Don’t. I can't … I'm gonna … no..."

"No, stop? Or no, don't stop? You're not making much sense, love."

Tommy clenches his teeth, his cock a furious line between them, trapped with every thrust. He looks utterly desperate. Properly so, not the prelude from an hour ago. 

"I … fuuu… I…" he stutters

"Need to come or need to piss, hmm?"

"Both … fuuu … I don't ..."

"S’alright darling, don’t matter. Cause you're not gonna do either, you hear me? You're not gonna do anything at all, Tommy, until I tell you to."

Tommy makes a high pitched sound, but his eyes say he wants to please.

“Listen to you,” Alfie says, “being so good for me."

"Fuck...fu...f…f…for you," Tommy says and that's all it takes for Alfie to reach his limit. He's been so close for so long, the sight of Tommy beneath him holding everything back, trying so fucking hard just because Alfie told 'im to … it's too much.  It's too good. He fucks into Tommy, hard and selfish, two, three, four thrusts that make Tommy shout in panic. Alfie’s done for, his vision whites out and he spills in one long, extended shudder. 

He should feel bad, groaning through one of the best orgasms of his life whilst Tommy shakes beneath him, straining, gasping, digging heels into his back. But for the first time in a long time, Alfie doesn't feel guilty at all. He feels blessed, even as he’s scrambling backwards far too soon, untangling their sweaty limbs. 

"Fuck, I’m gonna... fuck…" Tommy heaves upwards, and Alfie's there to meet him, already has one foot on the floor, his arms under Tommy's back.

"I got you sweetheart," he says, dragging Tommy from the bed. 

They stumble, bent double, across the landing and crash through the bathroom door. "Jesus ... fuck," Tommy groans. 

“I've got ya, sweetheart," Alfie says, lacing his fingers through Tommy’s left hand and pressing it to the wall. They both lean over the toilet, Tommy’s back curved into Alfie’s chest as they brace against the tiles. Tommy’s hand shakes with anticipation as he takes hold of his dick, clearly preparing to empty his bladder.

"Did I say you could touch it?" Alfie chides. “Both hands on the wall." 

Tommy whines, a proper high-pitched sound that catches high in his throat. He moves his right hand reluctantly up to the wall beside his left. 

“Can't piss in this state, sweetie,” Alfie says, kissing the hollow behind his ear. “Think of the blood pressing on your urethra—”

“Shut … fucking … shut …Christ, ” 

Alfie tuts and lowers his hand, smearing his thumb through the copious precum as Tommy’s elbows buckle. Alfie grabs him round the chest, pulls their hips tight together. 

“Stand up, you can do this,” he says, stroking Tommy’s swollen dick. He waits for Tommy’s legs to strengthen then strokes him again, a long, firm tug that pulls the foreskin tightly back. 

Tommy whimpers and Alfie does it again. Slowly. And again.

“I can’t, I ca … can’t,” Tommy gasps, but his hips are gradually rocking into the movement, so much so that a trail of hot come escapes his arse and runs down past Alfie’s knee. The feral stink of sex and sweat makes Alfie want to ruin him.

“Which do you need more, Tommy? To piss? Or to come?”

“To piss … to fucking piss," he growls. 

Alfie ignores the angry tone. “Hmm. That is a shame. Cause I’ve decided you’re gonna come.”

“I can’t,” Tommy says. “I ca...”

He probably believes that an 'all, but one look over Tommy's shoulder tells Alfie it ain't true. “Look at yourself, sweetheart. Go ahead. Look down.” 

Tommy’s cock is glistening, leaking pearlescent beads of fluid into the bowl below. 

“You still think you need to piss more, hmmm?” He bites at Tommy’s earlobe, sucking the soft flesh into his mouth and stretching it out with his teeth until Tommy’s legs start to tremble. “You can piss if you want to, darling, but I won’t let you come as well.” 

Tommy strains against him, locking his arms out from the wall in a ridiculous attempt to force Alfie backwards. It lasts all of ten seconds before his elbows give out. He makes a sorry sound of resignation.

Alfie tuts and moves his hand again, fist bumping Tommy’s bladder at the bottom of every stroke. It’s cruel, yes, but warranted after such a petty display of rebellion.  “Hands stay on the wall,” he says, speeding up his movements until Tommy gives in and thrusts into them faster ... faster, groaning like every stroke’s winding him, like it hurts but he just can’t stop. 

A trickle of liquid escapes over Alfie’s hand, unmistakably urine. Tommy whimpers behind closed lips and brings his hand down again. Alfie bats it away from his cock. “I said they stay on the wall.” He guides Tommy's hand back to the tiles, kisses him behind the ear. "You can do this," he promises. “You’ve done so well. Just one last challenge for me.”

Sure enough Tommy stops the leak from turning into a flow.  “Please, I can’t, I’m sorry …” he says, but the leak has already stopped, two little drips and the sharp smell all that remains of his misdemeanour. 

“See?” Alfie says, “You can do anything I ask — if you want to.” 

If Alfie was a younger man that thought alone'd make 'im hard again. That Tommy wants to do this, that he's trying so hard to please. Alfie pumps his fist with increasing speed, until Tommy’s heaving in rasping breaths and can't hold out any more.

"Come for me, Tommy," Alfie says, and thick white spurts pulse over his hand. “That’s it, you can let it go. Let everything go, darling.” 

And Tommy does, hot liquid joining the remnants of white, gushing out of him in a rapidly accelerating stream. Alfie aims it down as best he can, which seems to mortify Tommy.

“The fuck?" he gasps, "you’re not holding … I don’t need you t … you’re not …” He  gives up his feeble protest and sags against the wall. There are tears on his beautiful face, Alfie can feel them against his cheek. He turns to kiss them out of the corners of Tommy's eyes, screwed-shut against what he's just done.

It must be nearly a minute before the cascade relents and finally drips to a halt. Alfie kisses him through it, whispers nonsense, tells him how well he's done. As Tommy's dick softens, whole body softens, Alfie presses gently on his bladder. He rubs small circles, kneading the soft flesh beneath Tommy's navel until a second wave starts to flow, less forceful than before, but surprisingly plentiful.

By the time it stops, Tommy’s head is hanging low between his shoulders. His hair’s damp and he’s heaving; wet drips collecting at the tip of his nose. He is — without doubt or exaggeration — the most beautiful thing Alfie’s ever seen.  

“Fuck,” Tommy says after a few moments. He breathes out a little laugh which Alfie takes as his cue to reach over and turn on the shower. He sets the water to hot without letting go of Tommy. (It's the one advantage of living in a house with a bloody tiny bathroom).

“In you get, then,” he says when the steam starts to rise. He guides Tommy under the water and props him against the wall, stepping in to join ‘im only once he’s cleared up a bit. They don’t say much. Alfie don't feel the need. He holds Tommy’s face to his chest and feels whole for the first time in months. Like everything’s where it should be. 

“I could sleep for a week,” Tommy mumbles, when he's wrapped in a clean white towel.

“Right, well go on then. Sounds like an excellent plan.” Alfie flicks his towel at Tommy’s backside to send him on his way.

Alfie turns into his own room to message Ed, tells him he'll have to grow a pair and hold the fort today. He finds himself a clean pair of shorts and straightens out the sheets. 

When Tommy doesn’t reappear, Alfie pokes his head round the door of the other room. Tommy is laying on his bed, one hand up near his mouth.

“Watcha doing?” he asks softly, even though he can very well guess. 

Tommy darts his hand away. “Going to sleep,” he says, but his inflection makes it a question. Alfie sees Campbell sneering, as clearly as if he were in the room. Something must show on his face because Tommy’s brow wrinkles. “Sorry, s’just I talk in my sleep. Get nightmares.” 

“No shit, darling.”

“I didn’t think you’d … you get up so early.”

Lying there Tommy looks wary, skin damp and pink as a freshly skinned rabbit. Rationally Alfie knows it's from the shower, but it don't stop the rage bubbling up. He so clearly needs warm hands on his skin, lips pressed to his head. Alfie climbs in beside him and Tommy doesn’t resist, rolls into Alfie’s embrace as if he’s entirely boneless, split open and filleted, only the soft bits left behind. He sighs against Alfie’s chest, a huff of moist air that warms more than Alfie’s skin.  

***

A month later, Alfie's exhausted. Between the sleep-talking and the constant sex, his nights ain't what they were. He's s'posed to be at work in an hour, but Tommy won't leave 'im alone. 

“Plenty of women’d be proud of these,” he says as he sucks on Alfie’s nipples. 

It's his own fault, Alfie knows that. He discovered that holding Tommy down and kissing him drags him out of his nightmares a treat. Problem is he wakes up wide-eyed and needy, and it's too much to resist. 

“They’re so fucking soft. And pointy.”

“How can they possibly be soft and pointy, hmmm? Don’t make no fuckin’ sense.”

“Don’t know. But they are,” Tommy says between mouthfuls of flesh. “Can see ‘em through your shirts.” 

“Shouldn’t be looking then, should you?”

“I’m gonna make them puffy,” Tommy announces, and proceeds to suck so hard for so long that Alfie is forced to pull 'im off and flip ‘im over before he makes an undignified sound. 

“I’ll make something else puffy, you cheeky little sod.” And he does. He fucks Tommy for an hour straight, till ‘e should be leaving for work.

“M’gonna testify,” Tommy says afterwards, when he’s lying in Alfie’s arms. 

“This about the kid?” Alfie asks. 

It is. It has to be.  One of Campbell’s young accusers tried to hang himself this week. Damn near succeeded an 'all.

Tommy doesn’t answer, just lays unusually still for such a long time that Alfie might almost think he’s gone back to sleep. Except them long eyelashes are open, twitching in thought every now and then as he stares into whatever world lies beyond the walls of this room.  

Alfie waits. Listens to the thermostat kick in, rattling the old pipes to life, making the floorboards creak. A pair of cats takes to fighting on the other side of the street. It's god-knows-how-long before a sharp sniff announces Tommy's arrival back on this earth. “I’ll ‘ave to leave the country afterwards."

Fuck. Alfie waits for some indication as to whether he's serious or not. “Well, yeah, course," he says carefully, when no indication's forthcoming. "Better be somewhere hot, mind. Spain? South America?”

“Ireland,” Tommy says. He's deadly serious ain't he? Alfie’s stomach plummets. 

“I bought a castle. On the west coast.” He says it the way anyone else might say they bought a new pair of shoes. 

Alfie swallows. Don’t trust ‘imself to say anything. 

“S’got plenty of land. For horses. Gonna open a sanctuary.”

The past month’s been too fucking good to be true, but Jesus Christ he's a mug for expecting this to last. 

“Not just for horses,” Tommy says. “For kids, well young adults, mostly.”

“Right,” Alfie manages to grunt.

"And there's plenty of money to be made, a business to fund it all."

"Sounds like you've got it all planned out." Alfie extracts his arm from beneath Tommy and rolls over onto his back. 

“Alfie?”

What an idiot, thinking they might have a future. Tommy's had his exit strategy planned all along, must 'ave. This ain't all been cooked up in the last fortnight.

“Alfie,” he says again. 

"What?" Alfie refuses to look at 'im; throws an arm over 'is eyes.

“Come with me.”

“Hmm?” He has to look back at Tommy, 'cause he's not sure he heard that right.

“To Ireland,” he clarifies. “A luxury hotel with a first class restaurant is not gonna run itself.”

And Alfie tries to be pissed off, right, at the level of presumption, at the way this arrogant little fucker's suddenly planning out their life. But an air-bag’s just gone off in his chest, and it's making it hard to talk. Must be indignation. 

“I don't know the first thing about hospitality. Bring whoever you want for the team.” Tommy’s eyes are closed as he says it, like this is so mundane a proposal it don’t require his full interaction.

“Oh, I get to choose, do I?” 

“Yeah. We'll help each other." 

“Cooking ain't my only business, is it?” Alfie says. It’s fucking petulant, but he ain’t above such things.

“You mean the Domming?” Tommy says.

“Hmm.”

“Rooms in the basement. Kit them out for discreet discerning clients.”

Fuck, he’d ‘ave let that go, truly, but that really is an idea.

“How very accommodating of you,” he says, as Tommy turns over to face ‘im. 

“Only if you take me down there sometimes.”

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”

“And buy a proper spanking bench. One with decent padding” — Alfie can’t help but smile — “and you’re not allowed to fuck the other clients.” 

Alfie couldn’t give less of a shit if he never fucked anyone else again.

“Or suck them,” Tommy adds.

“Right, well, any other conditions?" He ain't sure how he feels but knows his heart's beating too fast. 

"And what about me mum?” he says, when he's mentally discarded his rather paltry list of objections. 

“She thinks it’s a great idea.” 

What? What the fuck?   "She knows?"

"She asked me what my intentions were towards her precious pride and joy."

"And you fuckin told 'er?"

“About the hotel and the restaurant, yes… not the other business!" Tommy makes that little airy sound that passes for a  laugh. "She’s got a suite in the roof whenever she wants it. But you have to talk her out of purple.”

“You devious little—”

“I should warn you, she’s expecting a Michelin Star out of you.”

“Is she in-fuckin-deed? Well, she’s always thought too much of me.”

“Clearly,” Tommy replies. He sounds about ready for sleep.

“Well, I … s’a fuckin’ big decision. I’ll ‘ave to think about it, won’t I?”

“You do that,” Tommy says. “But your name’s already on the contracts, so you’re paying if they have to be changed.”

The audacity of this bastard. Fuckin'ell. He kisses the top of Tommy’s head. 

Tommy’s already asleep.