Two words: Peaky. Blinders.

Alfie's enjoying the private beach and the world's most comfy sun-lounger, complete with one of them rattan parasols and a glittering turquoise sea. He ate enough at breakfast to last him a whole fucking week and plans to do as little as possible for at least the next few hours. His freshly-oiled skin sizzles in the full glare of the sun. Sweating's never felt so good; it's as if life's stresses are leaching out of his body and into the towel beneath him. The scent of salt and suncream slows his heart to a gentle patter. He made fucking sure the resort was kid-free, so the waves provide the only soundtrack as they lap against the sand. Maybe he'll go for a dip in a bit, when he's heated himself to a good, heavy smoulder. But first he'll have a doze ... aids the digestion, don't it?

"Where's me fucking phone, Alfie?"

"Jesus H. Christ, Tom, you trying to give me a coronary?"

"Give my fucking phone back or I'll give you more than that."

Alfie squints at the angry shadow looming over his lounger; even through flashing-white retinas he can tell Tommy's face is puce. The air, so recently tranquil, bristles with hostility as Tommy swipes droplets of chlorine from his body as if they were burning his skin.

Alfie knew this was gonna be hard, right? It's not like Tommy mis-sold himself; their very first meeting ended in a slew of creative insults and a life-time ban from Alfie's favourite coffee place. (Anyone who can get that worked up over a splash on their fucking suit clearly ain't the type who finds it easy to relax.) 

"You lost your mobile, treacle?"

"No. I have not fucking lost it. You paid someone to nick it while I was in the pool."

That's one of the problems with Tommy. He's a suspicious little prick. "You do know how preposterous that sounds, right?"

"Not half as preposterous as you look with those stupid fucking tattoos. Give my phone back. Now."

"How can I give it back if I don't know where it is?" (Not technically a lie. He paid the pool-boy to half-inch it, yes, but he don't know its location at this precise moment.) "Why don't you see this as an opportunity to leave your email alone for five minutes?"

Tommy looks fit to burst out of his very lovely skin.

"I hear the yoga teacher's excellent," Alfie continues. "Or you could book yourself a massage."

"I'm booking the next flight home unless my phone's back in fifteen minutes. I'm going to the room." Tommy flings his towel at Alfie, kicking up a flurry of sand as he storms towards the hotel. Fine then. Plan B it is.

He don't actually have a Plan B, as he follows Tommy at a safe distance, but he's always prided himself on a knack for improvisation. 

One feigned apology for phone-theft and a conciliatory hug later and Tommy is on his back, wrists cuffed through the headboard slats. His eyes are ablaze with fury but whatever he'd like to say comes out as a muffled growl. Turns out the belt from a towelling robe makes a very effective gag. (Alfie suspects that a lesser brand would have done the job just as well, but he doesn't miss the opportunity to point out its designer credentials.) 

Tying Tommy's legs is a little more problematic. Devoid of the speed of handcuffs and the element of surprise Alfie's forced to wait a while for the thrashing to subside. Not that it takes too long; a kilometre in the pool has rather sapped Tommy's strength. 

"Should've had more than egg whites for breakfast," Alfie says as he ties a second towelling belt around Tommy's left ankle. He pulls it up to the headboard, through the slats behind Tommy's head, and out again to be fastened around the other ankle. He ignores the furious glare — it's hard to take anyone seriously with their feet either side of their ears.  He likes Tommy bent like this: with his legs splayed and his vulnerable bits exposed, like an upended turtle stuck on its back. If turtles wore very expensive swimming trunks.

"Now then, let's start again," Alfie says, sitting on his heels. "This is called a holiday. We came here to unwind. Clearly you need a little more help with that than even I anticipated." He wanders into the bathroom to find everything he needs, giving Tommy a moment to adjust to his new predicament. May as well get used to it. He's gonna be there a while.

"Now," Alfie says, returning with a pair of scissors and knee-walking onto the bed. "I wouldn't move if I were you, wouldn't want me to nick anything vital." He proceeds to snip a line up the side of Tommy's trunks. "No need to look so incensed, love, they're only polyester." 

*

Alfie fucks him for forty minutes, through sweat and sand and suncream, till Tommy is shaking his head side to side and sounding a lot less furious. He seems a little chastened (not quite repentant yet, but he'll get there, given time).

"Your own fault, sweetheart. If you hadn't've flicked that towel at me there wouldn't be so much sand. Didn't have to be this way."

Alfie likes it this way. Likes making Tommy so exquisitely sore he can't think about anything else. "And there's no point shaking your head like that. You know how to make this stop." If Tommy were to bang his head three times on the pillow, Alfie would back away. He won't, though. He likes pretending to hate it too much.

"Gonna fuck you till you're so used you can't sit down at dinner." Alfie comes a few thrusts later, with that very thought in his head — Tommy lowering himself gingerly into a chair in front of the other diners. He comes down from his crashing orgasm to find Tommy looking smug, or as smug as is achievable through a drool-soaked gag. 

"S'pose you think this is over, hmm? Think you can clench your pert little backside and make me come and I'll have to let you go?" He sits back and aims a good hard slap at Tommy's upturned arse. "I've got bad news for you, sweetheart." He slaps the other cheek. "I've brought the strap-on with me." He presses a kiss to Tommy’s forehead and heaves himself from the bed. "Just gonna clean up a little. You wait here a minute." 

He returns with a bath-brush in hand, and strokes the bristles down Tommy's thigh, shaking his head a little. "I think someone needs a little help with his priorities. Twenty should do it, what do you think?" He doesn't give Tommy time to respond before he starts in with the back of the brush — every swat delivered hard and fast to show that he means business.  

He watches the shock on Tommy's face morph into what might be the first shreds of contrition. "Good," he says, when he's finished. "Think we might be getting somewhere." He loosens Tommy's gag, pulling the towelling down under his chin. 

"Fuck you," Tommy rasps. "Give my phone back." 

Alfie sighs heavily. Clearly there's bugger all chance of any more sunbathing today. "You see that there's low blood-sugar, petal. Always makes you stroppy."

He makes his way to the mini-bar and finds a can of coke, together with a bendy straw. At least he won't have to untie Tommy. 

"Here, drink up," he says, sitting himself on the bed and pointing the straw towards Tommy's mouth.

Tommy turns his head away, so Alfie takes a sip himself. "Guess I'll ring room service then. Get one of them lads in the Hawaiian shirts to bring up something more substantial. Course I'll have to tip him well to cover the embarrassment of seeing you trussed up like a Christmas turkey waiting to be stuffed." He reaches over to the bedside table and retrieves the in-room menu. "What'll it be? Club sandwich?" He raises his eyebrows at Tommy and profers the coke can once more. 

"Cunt," Tommy croaks, but he takes the straw between his lips, which means he must be truly parched. 

Over the course of the next four hours Alfie fucks him properly senseless. With the strap-on and then with his cock again, and then with both side by side. He spanks Tommy in between fuckings, till the poor little love's eyes shine and he struggles charmingly. "S'all for your own good, sweetheart. You need to learn to switch the fuck off."

By the time Alfie's done, Tommy's pink all over and docile as a lamb. He don't seem to care what day it is, let alone where his phone might be. Released from his binds, he curls into Alfie and buries his face out of sight. 

Alfie holds him like that for a long while, kissing the top of his hair, until the silence gets disturbing. He wants to fill the air with words, but it ain't always the best tactic, so he distracts himself by taking Tommy's hand and sucking each finger in turn, from the tip to the furthest knuckle. Tommy lets him, that's the strangest thing, doesn't push or pull at Alfie's lips, just nestles ever closer until it must be hard to breathe.

He insists they go out for dinner; he's hungry again, despite the breakfast, which means that deep-down Tommy must be absolutely famished. Their table is on the sand, at the far end of the restaurant (although far from turning him on, Tommy's obvious discomfort at sitting down fills Alfie with unease). Confronted with the menu, Tommy seems vaguely confused, so much so that Alfie ends up ordering for them both — steak, medium rare — but draws the line at cutting it up when Tommy just stares at his plate. 

"On second thoughts," Alfie tells the waiter, "we'll have these boxed and taken to our room."

"Is everything alright, sir?" the young lad asks.

"I'm not sure," Alfie replies. "We're feeling a little out of sorts."

He wouldn't want Tommy like this all the time, sleepy-eyed and meek, but he does like the way their legs are pressed firmly together under the table. He likes that when he holds out his hand, Tommy takes it without suspicion, letting himself be led through the hotel and back to the safety of their room. He likes that he can undress Tommy, tuck him carefully under the sheets, and feed him cubes of soft red-meat till he's too tired to even chew. He likes the way Tommy's face looks as it settles into a dream, the dark space between his lips, the frown lifting from his brow. And he loves the way Tommy stays asleep til gone nine the following morning. How he flushes pink and lowers his eyes when he catches Alfie staring. 

Alfie tips his chin up, gently, and kisses him on the lips. "What am I gonna do with you?" he says with a smile.

"Anything you like," Tommy whispers, and immediately burrows in.

"That so, treacle?"

"Hmm."

Except Shelby is still fucking here, ain't he? Granted, his breathing's a little bit worse and his nose is bleeding again, but he's standing on his own two feet, tucking his shirt back in, which is more than most men would manage.

"All right then, back to work," Alfie barks at the row of gawping bakers. Jeremiah looks about ready to throw up, which he can damn well do elsewhere. "Are you deaf? I said, fuck off!" Three pairs of legs stumble to life and shuffle out the door.

"Alone," Tommy says, in that too-deep voice what don't match his delicate stature.

"Finally," Alfie says — as if making those three lackeys watch hadn't been his own direct order.

Silence fills the room. Amplified by the memory of so many desperate, animal noises. He ain't sure what to make of this bastard. Plenty of men'll bend over, sure, so long as it's dark and the price is right or they have no other option, but not many'll stagger up afterwards and glare at him like that.

He looks a picture, don't he? The bloodied eye and the crimson face and the hair that Alfie's own hand has pulled into startled spikes.

Maybe this gypsy boy ain't so fragile. Tell the truth, he looks fucking dangerous, like he might stab Alfie here and now if it weren't for them broken ribs.

"What?" Alfie says with open arms. "An audience not your thing?"

"No," Tommy says. There's blood in the tiny flecks of spit that fly out of his mouth.

"Yeah ... well. Sorry 'bout that. Sometimes you gotta remind the staff who the fuck's in charge 'round here."

"That so?"

"Yeah, it is, mate. Don't you worry 'bout it. Next time we'll be alone."

***

Next time comes two weeks later and they're definitely not alone. Ollie bursts into Alfie's office as if shot by a bloody-great canon.

"What the fuck?" Alfie roars, throwing his arms in the air.

"It's Shelby, boss. T ...t ... Thomas Shelby."

"Yeah? What the fuck about him?"

"He's here ... in the storeroom ... he's attacked three of our men."

The door swings again and Shelby appears, propelled by Ismael who has his arm in a lock. There's blood dripping from his right hand and the devil's own smile on his face. "M'afraid you're gonna need three new bakers. Unless they can work without eyes."

Alfie scratches his beard and leans back in his chair. "Is that so?" He can hear screams and shouts from the storeroom, a right old fucking commotion. "Ismael, let 'im go."

"Boss," Ollie shouts, "he had a knife. He blinded them!"

"I heard the man myself, didn't I? And if you're gonna wet your pants, Ollie, then be a good lad and go do it somewhere that ISN'T INSIDE MY OFFICE!"

Ismael reluctantly loosens his hold and Shelby shrugs himself free. "I have an offer, Mr Solomons. A hundred good men in place of your three."

Yeah, he's dangerous alright. Alfie smiles.

"Yeah, I'll take your men. But first you'll take dinner with me."

breathe.

3.

2.

1.

bang.

His fist connects with his thigh, the sting dulled by the agony clawing at the back of his throat, searing across his skin.

breathe.

3.

2.

1.

bang.

His fists find his temples now. Enough, Tommy. Focus. He needs focus. To shove it all back down, put it all back inside. Contain it. There is no time for this just now.

breathe, tommy.

3.

2.

1.

bang.

He hears himself rage aloud as his fists connect with his temples. Again. Once more.

breathe.

He rests his head in his hands. Enough. Presses his fingers to his eyes, hard enough to see sparks of light.

Tommy knew this was coming, the warning signs creeping in just as the dimming effects of the gin began to wear off in the small hours of the morning. The greying edges of his awareness. The tremble of his hand. The taste of iron in his throat. The cold gunmetal, the echo in the walls, and the distant morose hope that today, perhaps today, would be the end of it.

breathe.

3.

2.

1.

bang.

The pounding of his heart against his ribcage - a reminder that he has not yet reached his end. Too much to be done, no release from the weight. The weight. He has to contain this, the bits, the parts, these...these things inside that threaten to crack him wide open, to end him in an entirely different, unfathomable way.

breathe.

3.

2.

1.

bang.

His fist pounds against his heartbeat. It won't stop, won't end. Won't..

"Right, well."

The voice startles Tommy out of his head, tumbling back to awareness, to his surroundings. A park. A bench. A fountain. And a man, grunting as he settles himself onto the opposite end of the park bench.

"I'm no expert, but I am certain that whatever form of self-flagellatory breathing exercise you are performing is not going to help your fucking condition one bit, mate."

Tommy blinks at him. He squints back.

And in that instant, the hemorrhaging within ceases. Unleashes a tide of rage in its wake. Embarrassment and indignation at being caught out in this moment of weakness colors his vision red, spins him to the opposite end of this precarious tightrope. The slight downtick of this stranger's eyes to his waist brings his awareness to the fact that his hand had moved to his concealed holster and that -

Enough of this, now.

breathe.

Tommy moves his hand to the interior pocket of his jacket, slowly removes his pack of cigarettes. He can feel the weight of the stranger's gaze as he removes the lighter from the pack, lights one, and pockets the lot. A steadying drag before he gestures at the man with his cigarette, asks, "Who the fuck are you, eh?"

The fucker has the audacity to look almost amused, stirring the now simmering rage within him. "Who the fuck am I? Well, mate, I am simply a fellow traveler across this expansive realm of time and flesh and bone."

Tommy is going to shoot a man dead in the park today.

He opens his mouth, a threat on the tip of his tongue, just as the man grunts and nods to himself. To give himself permission, it would seem, to continue. Because he does.

"Life, right, is intrinsic in its on and on-ness. Fucking boring, mate. Predictable." He shifts on the bench, leaning forward to clasp his hands between his knees. Tommy moves his cigarette to his left hand, his right free to reach for a weapon, to stave off an attack. He won't be wrong-footed again. "It's the same ebb and flow, yeah? You wake up, go through your motions, your routine. Go to the same fucking bakery for the same cup of coffee at the same time every fucking day. Well, at least Sunday to Sabbath, as I do need some rest."

The man slides his gaze to Tommy at that, and recognition finally sparks at the back of his mind. This man is the loud, obnoxious owner of the café Tommy passes through every day on his way to, and sometimes from, work. The very café Tommy had just fled from, empty handed, to escape an audience to his fucking head cracking open.

Self-loathing creeps up his spine, sets his hand to tremble. He quickly taps out the ash of his cigarette, rubs his thumb and forefinger together to conceal it. It was the perfect storm of too much all at once that sent him spiraling. The weight, the plan, the work. One bad deal, a fucking FCA inspector with a Napoleon-sized hero complex, hell bent on exposing perpetrators of fraud against the sacred sovereign. The fall of his empire. It all rests on his shoulders.

A triple espresso, one sugar, dash of milk - a poor substitute for his preferred vice - but necessary for a clear mind in the daylight hours. But today. Today there was the constant rattle of construction work across the street. The brush of another customer passing by too closely. And a toddler, thumping his action figurine against the table in a feeble attempt to attract his mother's attention. Bang. Bang. bang.

"You can smoke as many of those cancer sticks as you like, they won't solve your fucking problem, mate."

Tommy snaps back to the present, anger curdling in his stomach. Anger at himself for his inability to regain steady ground. Anger at this bastard for witnessing his weakness and having the fucking temerity to have an opinion on it.

He inhales, watches as the fucker nods to himself and settles back against the bench, crossing his legs. "Alfie Solomons. Bread baker, candlestick maker." He pauses and raises his eyebrows at Tommy, as if waiting for a response. When one is not forthcoming, he continues. "Yeah, I'd shake your hand, but I get the feeling that you would fucking break it."

So Alfie Solomons, bread baker, decidedly not candlestick maker, is a goddamn lunatic. But not entirely without some sense.

Enough of this, though. "What the fuck do you want from me, eh? Fucking judging me? You breathe a fucking word of this, to anyone, and I will take your fucking tongue, do you understand me?"

Solomons just squints at him, scratches at the wiry hair of his unkempt beard.

Tommy contemplates the pistol at his side.

"Yeah, alright," Solomons says, evenly. "What the fuck do I want with you? Well, it's simple, mate. I have seen you, every day, walk into my shop carrying the weight of the fucking world. And I says to myself, that right there, is one lost, strange, fucking melancholic bird. And when I saw you crack back there, yeah? I said to myself, that strange fucking bird could use a kindness."

Tommy scoffs at that, lips curling in derision.

"Kindness, eh?" There is no kindness in this world for men like him. "Fuck off."

"Tell me something, mate. Why are you here, hm?"

"What?"

"Tell me. Why are you here? Sat there, on this bench."

"What the fuck are you on about?" Tommy flicks his still burning cigarette at this fucker's cheap shoes. "You seem to have all the answers, you bastard. You fucking tell me then, eh?"

Solomons just blinks at him and Tommy's last reserves of restraint snap. He wants to run, to escape this mad man and his questions. Yearns for the touch of cold, hard metal against his temple once more. Tommy cries out, presses his palms against his ears to silence the echo. too much too much stop this

"Certainty."

Tommy freezes.

"Fucking stability. The earth has just split apart beneath your fucking feet. But this bench, right here, is steady and can hold your weight, yeah? You let it do its work. It's instinct, that. Survival requires finding some certainty when the ground has opened up to swallow you fucking whole."

breathe.

Tommy releases his grasp on his skull. He opens his eyes, gaze a million miles away.

Solomons hums, shifts beside him.

Fuck certainty, he thinks. The weight could split this bench in two.

And yet.

"Certainty, mate. Now you see," Tommy lights another cigarette. "The thing about water is that it serves as a reflection, right, of the willpower of mankind. Because nothing can stop it. Now, you can divert the flow. You can trap it, try to contain it, right? But that water, that force there." In his periphery, Tommy can see Solomons' hand rise to point at the fountain just there. "It will find its way. Water will pass through every obstacle God Himself may lay before it. There is certainty in knowing that it will always arrive at its intended destination. It's fucking inevitable, innit?"

Every word, spoken with such intention, calms the beating of his heart. The anger bleeds out of him, is replaced by something akin to astonishment that he can be witness to and can receive such a thing as kindness.

In the calm, arises clarity. Sharp and instinctive, long suppressed by the sheer enervation of his continued existence. So wrought he has been by wicked work and vile actors, gnawing away at him, mind and body...

Lost, strange, fucking melancholic bird, indeed.

Tommy watches the cascade, the flow of the water in the fountain. Contained, yet infinite.

"Yeah," Solomons' voice is almost gentle now."Have a walk over there and take a look. That water, right there, is magic, mate, because it will show you to your fucking self."

breathe.

3.

2.

1.

The water cascades over the edges of the fountain, the sound plays a harmony with the chirp of birds and rustling leaves on the edge of the breeze. At odds with the bustle of the city behind him. But it is calm, just now. Clear. Certain.

Tommy rubs at the dull pressure building beneath his brow. Acknowledges the exhaustion left in the wake of his cracking. Sighs it away. There is work yet to be done. He is in need of a fall man. One provocative enough to satiate the bloody Crown. Turn away heads and the weight of their watchful eyes.

He will continue.

Tommy turns to face this mad man once again, only to find him vanished.

In his place, a cup of coffee. Tommy's name scribbled along the side, sits atop an order ticket.

He reaches for the cup and reads the ticket. Triple espresso, one sugar, dash of milk.

He turns the paper over to find scrawled on the back:

I will see you, Tommy.

He allows himself a small smirk. Fucking bastard. He pockets the ticket, stubs out his cigarette on the arm of the bench.

Tommy returns his hand to his coat pockets, searching, and stands when he finds what he's looking for. Tosses the cup of coffee into the nearest bin and continues down the path through the park.

At the fountain he pauses, the rush of water filling his ears now. Calm. Clear.

He knows the number of the devils that haunt him.

He has no desire to see them reflected in the water.

breathe.

3.

2.

1.