Dung's Pile of Dung

The Eden Club had not yet opened its doors to London's gentlemen, but it already smelled like the night before.

Cigarette smoke hung beneath the chandeliers in lazy grey ribbons. Empty champagne flutes littered velvet tables, lipstick stains still marking their rims.

At the centre of it all sat Arthur Shelby.

His jacket had long since been discarded over the back of a leather chair, his shirt sleeves rolled carelessly to his elbows. 

A half-finished bottle of expensive Scotch sat open beside an equally neglected bottle of French wine. White lines of cocaine were scattered across the polished mahogany table, along with a silver razor and a rolled-up banknote.

Arthur leaned over the table once more, inhaling sharply before throwing his head back with a satisfied grunt.

“Fucking…” he muttered to nobody in particular, rubbing hard at his nose. “...that's proper.”

His fingers searched blindly for his cigarette, he missed once, then found it. 

He lit it with shaky hands, drawing deeply before exhaling towards the ceiling.

Across from him, one of the Eden girls draped herself across the edge of the table, her sequined dress glittering beneath the dim lights. 

She laughed far louder than the joke she'd made deserved, trailing painted fingernails along Arthur's forearm.

“You've barely looked at me all morning, Mr. Shelby.” she hummed sweetly.

Arthur barely acknowledged her, “Hm?”

She shifted closer, smiling, “I could give you summat better to look at.”

Arthur stared at her for a long moment, eyes unfocused from the alcohol and cocaine.

“...Yeah.” he slurred, “...Go on then.”

She sighed through her smile, standing to perform a slow turn, letting the skirt of her dress sway around her legs. Another girl might have expected whistles or applause.

Arthur simply reached for his whiskey.

“Told you before…” he drawled, taking another burning swallow. “...don't make no difference if you're half-dressed or fully dressed in this bloody place.”

The woman rolled her eyes with a muttered complaint under her breath.

Arthur scarcely noticed. His attention had already wandered elsewhere, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the smoke curling from his cigarette.

Then, the front door creaked open.

Arthur's head snapped around. His chair scraped violently backwards as he stood, revolver already in his hand and aimed squarely at the entrance.

“The fuck are you–”

The words died halfway through.

Because standing in the doorway wasn't a rival gangster, or copper, or any man at all.

It was… you, a young lady.

You stood frozen beneath the entrance light, one gloved hand still resting on the brass handle.

A pale pink day dress fell neatly to your calves. White tights disappeared into worn little shoes, and clutched carefully against your chest was a pair of satin pointe shoes, the ribbons wrapped lovingly around them. In your other hand was a folded newspaper, creased so many times that the ink had begun rubbing onto your fingers.

Arthur frowned, “...Jesus, sweetheart.” he huffed, lowering the revolver, “What're you doin' here?”

The prostitute looked between the two of you with obvious confusion, you swallowed, feeling both panic and heat creep up your neck. 

“I-I'm terribly sorry,” you said softly, your voice barely carrying across the room. “I didn't realise…”

Arthur waved a dismissive hand before you could finish, “Doll, you've got the wrong building.” he explained, holstering his gun again. 

You blinked, “...I don't believe I do. This is the … ‘Eden Club’, right?”

You carefully unfolded the newspaper, smoothing out the wrinkles before holding it with both hands, “I came because of this.”

Arthur squinted through the haze of cigarette smoke.

“Wanted. Exotic dancers at the Eden Club,” he read aloud with a snort.

He looked back up at you, then at the newspaper, his eyebrows slowly climbed, “You?”

You nodded once, “Yes.”

Arthur let out a short, disbelieving laugh, “No, sweetheart. You've misunderstood–”

“I don't think I have.” you cut him off with determination. 

Arthur gestured broadly around the club with his cigarette, “You know what sort o' dancing goes on in 'ere?”

Your fingers tightened around the ribbons of your shoes, “Yes…”

Arthur couldn’t help but stare at you.

You looked impossibly out of place amidst the velvet, liquor, smoke, and drugs. Like someone had accidentally wandered out of a theatre and into a den of vice.

Arthur shook his head, “...Christ, love.”

You lowered your eyes for a moment before speaking again, almost apologetically, “I dance.”

Arthur continued studying you, his cigarette balanced loosely between his fingers as thin ribbons of smoke drifted lazily toward the ceiling. 

You remained where you stood near the entrance, your pointe shoes still held carefully against your chest.

Finally, Arthur let out a long sigh through his nose before glancing towards the woman still perched on his table.

"Right," he muttered, waving his hand dismissively. “Off you go.”

The prostitute frowned, clearly unimpressed with being sent away for this excuse of a dancer, “Seriously?”

“Aye,” Arthur replied, “You're done for now.”

She scoffed as she climbed off the table, smoothing down her glittering dress. With one final roll of her eyes, she sauntered out through the backstage curtains.

Arthur reached for his whisky, took another slow swallow, then dragged his heavy leather chair across the polished floor. The legs scraped loudly before he stopped it several feet back, angling himself so he was facing the empty stage rather than the table.

He leaned back with one boot resting over the opposite knee and motioned for you to step further inside.

“Come on then, doll,” he said, his voice softer now than it had been when he'd greeted you with a revolver. “Let's have a proper look at you.”

You approached cautiously, your footsteps almost inaudible, very aware of how Arthur was watching every single one of your movements. 

“What d'you call yourself?” he asked, resting his elbow against the arm of the chair.

“My name is Y/N,” you answered quietly.

Arthur repeated it under his breath, “...Y/N.” He nodded once, as though testing how it sounded.

“Pretty name,” he murmured before looking back up at you. “How old are you?”

“I'm twenty-three,” you replied politely.

Arthur raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, “Twenty-eight…” he echoed before taking another drag from his cigarette. 

“Hm.” he hummed, considering that for a moment before gesturing lazily towards the phonograph.

“Well… go on.” Arthur said, flicking ash onto the floor.

You looked at him uncertainly, “Sir, I–”

“Put whatever you like on,” he said, “Long as it ain't that bloody jazz they keep playin'. Gives me a headache.”

You nodded gratefully, “Thank you.”

Crossing the room, you carefully sorted through the records before finding one that made your expression brighten ever so slightly.

You placed the needle gently onto the record.

Instead of the lively brass and smoky vocals usually filling the Eden Club, soft orchestral strings slowly drifted through the room.

“...Bit posh,” he muttered beneath his breath.

You smiled to yourself.

Setting your worn everyday shoes neatly beside the stage, you sat carefully on its edge before slipping on your pointe shoes.

“The hell are those things made of?” he asked.

“They're called pointe shoes,” you answered while smoothing the ribbons flat against your ankles. “They allow us to dance en pointe.”

Arthur blinked, he obviously had no idea what all that french dancing nonsense meant, so all he did was give a half agreeing grunt.

“...On our toes.” you clarified.

“...Bloody hell.” he mumbled, the thought of it sounded painful.

You stepped onto the stage.

For a brief moment, you simply stood there, your hands resting gently at your sides as your eyes closed.

Then, you let the music carry you. 

Arthur had expected something... flirtatious.

Perhaps something sexy.

He had not expected this.

The first movement was almost impossibly light, your feet barely seeming to touch the wooden stage as you rose effortlessly onto the tips of your toes. Your arms floated through the air guided by the music and your movement, every turn impossibly precise, every leap weightless enough that, for a heartbeat, you seemed to float above the floor.

Arthur forgot his cigarette. It slowly burned between his fingers. He forgot his whisky. Forgot the cocaine still scattered across the table behind him.

The only sound in the room was the orchestra spilling from the phonograph and the faint whisper of satin brushing against polished wood.

You weren't dancing for anyone. You were simply dancing.

His mouth parted ever so slightly.

“...Jesus Christ,” he whispered almost to himself.

The front doors opened once again.

Arthur’s younger brother, Thomas, stepped inside, removing his coat, “Arthur did you–” he began but was utterly cut off by the scene unfolding in front of him. 

His sharp blue eyes immediately found Arthur sitting motionless before the stage.

Then they lifted to you, his brow furrowed. He knew his brother had strange taste at best, but he didn’t know he got into ballet now. 

“What the hell is this?” Tommy asked as he approached, glancing between the two of you.

Arthur didn't answer.

Tommy looked towards the stage again before speaking more firmly, “Arthur.”

Nothing.

“Arthur.”

Arthur finally blinked, though his eyes never truly left you, “What?”

Tommy gestured towards the stage. “This isn't a bloody theatre,” he said flatly.

Arthur's gaze remained fixed on your graceful silhouette as you completed another effortless turn beneath the warm stage lights.

A slow grin spread across his face.

“It is now,” he replied quietly, unable to look away.

─── ꒰ 🩰 ꒱ ───