Work Text:
Alfie's not best pleased when he has to answer the door at 8am on a Saturday morning. The ugly mug on the doorstep does nothing to improve his mood.
"Mr Shelby?" the lad says, looking down at the clipboard in his hands.
"No," Alfie answers gruffly. He's busy reading the sign on the van parked right outside his house.
J Foley & Son. No move too big or small!
"Oh," says the bloke, glancing down at his paperwork and back up at the door. "This is number 19, right?"
Alfie looks at the large brass '1' screwed into the centre of his front door, right next to the large brass '9,' and doesn't answer.
"Right, course. Sorry," the lad says with a nervous little laugh. He starts flipping paper on his clipboard as if he's been set a conundrum and the answer must be hidden under one of the yellow sheets.
"Tommy!" Alfie shouts into the house.
Tommy appears from the kitchen, dressed in nothing but loose jersey bottoms, a triangle of toast in his mouth. Alfie loves 'im like this — hair tousled, face lined from the crumpled sheets.
"You still wanna move out?" Alfie asks. He'd like to think that three days spent in bed together gives him the answer to that question. Three days spent kissing and stroking and talking in low voices, barely being apart. But the truth is they haven't addressed the argument that preceded this slice of heaven. The argument that resulted in Tommy saying he'd, "be gone by the weekend." Alfie ain't dared to mention it, too scared to break the spell.
But it seems arrangements have been made.
Tommy stands at the foot of the stairs, staring at the bright green van outside, his toast hovering in mid-air, like someone pressed the pause button.
"Tommy?" Alfie asks again. He wants to slam the door in this twat's face and crowd Tommy against the wall, tell 'im he can stay here as long as he goddamn likes. Forever. Preferably forever.
He thinks of how warm those pale limbs have been, wrapped around 'im these last few nights, how easy it's been to settle him when he struggles in his sleep. He's almost willed the nightmares on, purely for the selfish rush it gives him to soothe Tommy back to sleep, to hold 'im close and stroke his hair and murmur in his ear... gentle nonsense he doesn't yet dare to say in daylight hours.
He doesn't want to imagine Tommy in some soulless flat, working and drinking alone, retiring to an empty bed with all that muck in 'is head.
But maybe he won't be alone. Maybe he'll go to Ada's, like he threatened once before. The thought of him at his sister's place is somehow even worse. Alfie's learnt enough about Tommy to know that he'd wrap himself tight in secrecy and rot from the inside out before admitting any weakness to his family.
But what if he wants to leave? What if he needs some space? It's possible he resents the way Alfie's been peeling back his layers. Maybe that's why he's booked this removal firm — easier than saying out loud that he feels smothered.
Alfie, much as it pains him, doesn't want to coerce him to stay. He's been coerced enough. So he breathes through the ache that's settled in his chest and repeats the hateful question. "Tommy, do you want to move out?"
Tommy looks at his toast. At the van. Back at his toast.
"It's fine," Alfie lies. "If it's what you want then I'll help you, won't I?"
Dread sits low in his belly as he watches Tommy do his thousand yard stare into the living room and out the other side. S'fuckin' disconcerting the way he does that.
"Yes," Tommy finally says. "I want you to help me."
Fuck. Alfie feels sick. He's already imagining the misery of lugging boxes over some unknown threshold ... finding the kettle whilst trying to act like he's ay-okay with the decision ... staying long enough to drink tea and make awkward small-talk and then leaving Tommy there on his own.
Coming home.
The mere idea of this house, his house, devoid of Tommy's particular brand of near-silent agitation — the now familiar sniffs and coughs and throat clearances that are a language all their own; that signal, by their subtle variations, boredom or frustration or concentration, if you care to pay attention. And Alfie cares. That's the whole fuckin' problem. It's enough to—
"With everything," Tommy says. "I want you to help with everything. We can help each other."
Alfie ain't sure he's understanding right, has to pull his rapidly accelerating mind back from the bleak Tommy-less future it's busy fleshing-out in technicolour detail (always harder to put the brakes on his thoughts than it is to set them off in the first place).
"Hmm?" he manages to say.
"If you want to," Tommy adds.
"If I want? If I fuckin' want to?" Alfie rolls his eyes and rubs his beard. He has the strange sensation something's growing in his belly. "Then why, in the name of all that is damnable and unholy, is this goon standing on my doorstep at fuck o'clock on a Saturd'y?"
Said goon clears his throat apologetically and takes a step back down the path.
"I forgot," Tommy says quietly. "Wasn't sure you'd want—"
"Tommy," Alfie says sternly, frustration rushing in to fill the space relief just cleared in 'is chest. "Go and wait in the kitchen."
Tommy swallows, and there's no fucking reason the sight of his adam's apple dipping and rising in a perfectly normal, anatomically appropriate manner should make Alfie's cock twitch like it does. "First I'm gonna deal with him" —he points over his shoulder towards the door without taking his eyes off Tommy— "then I'm gonna deal with you."
Fifty quid and a fearsome glare sends Foley & Son on 'is way.
Alfie wanders back into the kitchen, to find Tommy stood with his back to the sink, two hands gripping the edge of the worktop. His toast lies abandoned.
Alfie steps close and takes hold of his chin between thumb and forefinger. "Did you honestly doubt how much I want you to stay?"
"Maybe," Tommy answers.
"Maybe?" Alfie says. "Aren't we the master of understatement?"
"Yes. Okay. I doubted it." The flicker of a smile crosses Tommy's face, floods Alfie with a fresh wave of relief. (Floods his cock with something too).
"And do you still doubt me now?" he asks, stepping closer, grinding himself against Tommy.
Tommy's tongue flicks across his lower lip as he looks down between them. "Not so much, now, no."
"Good. That's good." Alfie says, and kisses him. Even first thing in the morning the silly bastard tastes good — sweet and bitter like marmalade. Alfie could eat his breakfasts like this for good, licked right out of Tommy's mouth. He takes his time, savours the subtler taste that follows — foggy, like weak milky tea. He pulls Tommy closer, one hand pressed into the dip at the small of his back where flesh gives way to bone; holds him harder, kisses him harder, as if he can implant what he's feeling through touch, through tongues. It's not enough.
"Gonna have to pay a price, though," he says, as he kisses Tommy's ear. "For doubting how much I want you. How much I want you to stay."
"That right?" Tommy says, breathily.
The kernel of a wicked idea is growing in Alfie's mind. He bites his way down Tommy's neck, sucks over the rough, salty outline of his adam's apple and works his way back up to the other ear. His left hand is somewhat distracted, fingers walking their way to the cutlery drawer, pulling it open, creeping across the jumble of utensils till they reach the wooden spoon. He slides it out as quietly as he can and taps it against Tommy's thigh. "You're gonna bend over the table, love."
Tommy's breath hitches as Alfie thumbs over the dip of his throat. "You're gonna bend over the table and pull those trousers down and listen whilst I tell you exactly how I feel." He presses their noses together, conscious that Tommy's gone unnaturally still; his face feels hot beneath Alfie's palm.
"You heard of kinesthetic learning?" Alfie asks.
Tommy seems to 'ave stopped breathing. Alfie runs a round the back of his neck and strokes the short hair he finds there.
"S'the idea that some people process information better through physical sensation."
If he could bottle the look in Tommy's eyes he'd drink himself blind every night — a combination of fear and shame and burning lust.
"See, I could tell you something once, but chances are you'll forget." He taps the worktop with the flat of his wooden spoon. "But if I tell you and then I punctuate it with a physical reminder" —this time he cracks the spoon so loud that Tommy inhales sharply— "then your body will absorb the sensation as well as the information. Double the impact. Think of it as a physical aid to the process of forming a memory."
Tommy's mouth is hanging open, his pupils wide as saucers. Alfie strokes his messed up hair, smoothing it back from his face. "Busy head like yours, love, needs all the help it can get."
He guides Tommy by the forearm till he's standing at the table. "Movement. Control. Expression," he says, urging Tommy to bend at the hips, "they all help kinaesthetic learners to absorb the salient points." He rests Tommy's head on the table. "Hands flat, just like that," he says.
Tommy's almost shaking by the time Alfie slides his trousers down and kisses his naked arse — surprisingly round and fleshy for such a slender thing. His skin's so pale in the morning light it seems almost a shame to mark it. But mark it he most certainly will, if it gets his point across.
"Let's hope you're a fast learner," he says as he stands up and takes his place. "We'll start with fifty, shall we? See how you go from there."
Tommy shivers as Alfie smooths a hand over his pert curves.
"I love you," he says at exactly the same time as he lands a heavy thwack. Tommy gasps in surprise. "I actually" —thwack— "bloody-well" —thwack— "love you. You little cunt" —thwack. He hits hard enough to leave a red bullseye behind with each impact. Tommy is shocked into silence, his hands pressed into the table as Alfie continues quickly through the first twenty-five.
"How's that message sinking in?" he asks, pausing to rub a hand up Tommy's spine.
Tommy's reply is a harsh pant.
"No? We'll carry on, then."
He thwacks out another ten hard blows, alternating cheeks. Next time he'll have him over his lap.
"I fucking" —smack— "love you" —smack— "Tommy" —smack — "and I don't care" —smack— "who" —smack— "knows." He pauses again. "You hearin' me okay there, treacle?"
Tommy has pressed his mouth to the table.
"Tell me" —smack— "tell me" —smack— "you hear me."
It's not that Alfie's surprised when Tommy remains mute — he's an obstinate little fucker at the best of times. Alfie didn't exactly plan any of this. Didn't plan to say those particular words out loud, on this particular day, but impulsiveness is a weakness he sometimes has to indulge. He doesn't want Tommy to say 'em back. He just wants him to listen. To understand. To accept it as the unequivocal fact it is.
And so he keeps going, watching Tommy's arse turn slowly purple.
"S'a shame," he says when he's delivered fifty and Tommy's gasping against the wood. "I had hoped that would be enough. Your arse certainly wishes it was." He squeezes the sore flesh and leans low over Tommy's back. "Stay there," he growls. "If you move before I get back, I will make you incredibly sorry."
He takes his time going up the stairs; the respite will let Tommy think. The bath brush is hanging from the shower rail, a long-handled, traditional thing. He unhooks it and weilds it against his own thigh, tests its thudding weight. Should certainly drive home his message.
Alfie feels wonderfully calm as he heads back down the stairs — lighter, somehow, for having said the words out loud and realised they are true. He's perversely sure that Tommy will still be in place, not that it really matters. If he's moved, then Alfie'll enjoy dragging him back and doubling the punishment. He peeks over the banisters to check and feels a tingle of pride when he sees Tommy still lying obediently across the kitchen table, looking strangely relaxed, face turned to the side.
And then the doorbell rings.
"Don't worry, I'll get it," Alfie shouts cheerfully. "You stay right where you are, love. Unless you want to regret it."
Alfie stares through the peephole at the delivery driver, holding a brown paper parcel, and decides to test how far he can push Tommy's compliance. He opens with a cheery, "hello," well aware that Tommy's swollen arse is in direct sight-line of the door. The delivery guy doesn't look up, just hands over the parcel, collects Alfie's signature on the small touch-screen, and trundles on his way.
"You fucker," Tommy whispers as Alfie steps back into the kitchen.
"You what, love?"
"You fucking ... fuck—"
Whatever slur he was getting around to is cut short by an almighty clap of oak against arse.
A spanking with a bath-brush is no low-key affair. It's a serious, man-sized implement that deals out serious, man-sized pain. As Tommy learns to his detriment over the course of fifty swats. He lasts all of six before his resolve starts to break. Six more "I love you, you stubborn cunts" and he's shuddering with the pain.
"What am I telling you, Tommy?" Alfie asks for what must be the twentieth time. "Just say it and all this can stop, love. Tell me you've heard what I've said."
Nothing. He just makes an ungodly noise into the wood. Alfie presses a hand flat across the small of Tommy's back. "Guess you really need the message rammed home, eh? Is that it? You want it imprinted in blood?"
He rounds the table to see Tommy's face, to kiss his upturned cheek. "I love you, you hear me, Tommy?"
Tommy looks at him and lets out a long shaky breath.
"I love you," Alfie says again, taking aim at the crease of Tommy's thigh. "I love you, I love you, I love you," he says with three vicious imprints to match. The third blow earns him a whimper, and fuels his tiring arm. "I love you, dammit, Tommy. Say it. Tell me I love you." Another two blows, the hardest yet, and Tommy gasps under his breath. "You... "
Again smacks down fiercely hard again, willing him over this line. "That's it. You what?"
"You lo... you love..."
"I love you, that's it, fucking say it."
The sound of wood against flesh is so loud it hammers in Alfie's ears.
"You love me," Tommy gasps. "You love me" —smack— "you love me" —crack— "you love ... me... you lo... you ..." His voice is lost as the blows reign down hard and fast, each attempt to speak chocked back wetly into his throat.
Alfie kisses him between every hit, his shoulders, his back his cheek, until the bath brush clatters onto the floor and he slumps over Tommy's back. "I love you," he says, kissing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses over the back of Tommy's neck. Alfie's hips grind unthinkingly against the fire of Tommy's arse.
"You love me," Tommy whimpers. He reaches for Alfie's hands, laces their fingers together. "You love me," he says again quietly. "Now fucking fuck me."
Alfie tries to lift himself, but Tommy yanks his hands back down. "Here."
"One hand, Tommy, just for a moment." He unlaces his right hand from Tommy's just long enough to push down his own pyjamas and spit twice into his hand. It's the most perfunctory preparation but Tommy is pushing against him. Demanding him. So fucking delightfully needy that Alfie's whole body sings. He pushes in, barely spit-slick, and sinks his teeth into Tommy's shoulder, groans loud enough to muffle the hurt sound beneath him.
Tommy, poor sod, is burning up against the curve of Alfie's hips but pushing back all the same. He's mumbling a string of inaudible things, his tongue thick in his mouth, powerless to make sense through the rhythmic grunts and groans that Alfie's fucking out of him.
This could be over in seconds, but Alfie slows the pace, each thrust a solid shunt followed by an insufferably slow withdrawal. Fuck, it feels so good.
"Now what have we learnt, love?" he asks, not breaking his hard...slow...hard rhythm.
"You love me," Tommy says. The words are caught on a gasp and he gurgles delightfully as Alfie shunts once more. "You love... you love... you ... I ... fuck ... I ..."
"That's right, I love you. You beautiful fucking cunt. Look at you ... so fucking good." Alfie rams in hard, holds himself buried and pulls out slowly again. Over and over.
Tommy squeezes their interlocked fingers, shoves back hard. "So ... fuck ... I ... you love ..." he gasps. He takes everything Alfie's got and grinds like it's not enough. "I fucking ... you love me." And Tommy comes, muscles tight, everything straining, locking, groaning, shaking, until Alfie can't hold himself back, throws his weight over Tommy and lets himself go with a guttural groan.
They slump, for a few numb moments, until Alfie, with a sudden surge of strength, manhandles them through to the living room and throws Tommy onto the sofa. Tommy looks half-fucking-stunned, resting the back of one hand on his forehead and blinking wide-eyed at the ceiling.
"Tommy?" he says.
The use of his name pulls Tommy back from wherever he's wandered off to. He glances down at Alfie, as if remembering he's still there. "You bastard," he says quietly.
Alfie pulls the throw from the back of the sofa and unfolds it over Tommy, then grabs another and settles down beside him. It's a tight squeeze, but he pulls Tommy close, rearranges their limbs, kisses his forehead repeatedly.
"You fucking, evil bastard," Tommy mumbles into his neck.
"I've been called far worse than that, love."
"Me mangav tut. Melalo balo."
"What the fuck does that mean, hmm?" Alfie strokes Tommy's back. Wonders how long they can lay here before he'll have to make some tea.
"Never you mind."
"Something worse, I bet."
"Much, worse" Tommy sighs. "So much fucking worse."