#tomfie

There's silence at the other end, heavy and deliberate. He shouldn't have bloody well picked-up, but since when did shouldn't matter? Teeth clenched, he listens whilst a familiar weight settles itself in his stomach. Slowly he reaches over to mute the black and white war film he's been watching. He's long since lost the plot, having dozed on and off through most of it. Easy enough to guess the ending, they're all the bloody same — victory mixed with grief mixed with a dose of moral high ground. He leans back on the leather sofa to wait.

Beside him, Cyril opens his eyes and raises his chin a little. Alfie shakes his head in response — I know, mate, I fuckin' know. Cyril slumps back down on his paws. It's late, and Alfie's tired, and he ought to hang up right now. Never fucking does though, does he? 

He tucks the phone into his shoulder and laces his hands together, stretching his arms out in front of him until the knuckles crack loudly. 

Over his shoulder, in the kitchen, a little red clock on the oven indicates ten past. He watches the seconds blink, counts them in his head as if he suspects the digital display is trying to cheat him. It isn't. Time ticks by just as slowly as it always bloody does.

"Right then," he says when the minutes have clicked over to eleven. "Time you went out, Cyril."

He puts his phone onto speaker and sets it on the coffee table. There's movement at the other end of the line, a shuffling sound and breaths. Still there then. 

Cyril's reluctant to move from his spot; it's cold outside and he has no desire to leave the warmth of the sofa. Alfie grabs hold of his collar and hauls him over the edge. Cyril moves like a sack of potatoes, waiting until the last bloody second to plant his feet on the rug. One of these days he'll forget to bother and land like a seal on his belly, looking pretty fucking embarrassed.

"Oi," Alfie curses mildly. "Mind me fucking feet!" 

There's another noise from the coffee table. Footsteps, perhaps, the rhythm scuffed and uneven. Alfie takes Cyril to the back door and shoves him into the garden. "That's it, go sniff out some rats. Do yer fuckin' business."

He slides the door closed and peers out, watching Cyril plod towards the shed. As he steps back he catches sight of himself in the door — it's dark inside and out, and so the television flickers both behind him and in front of him, reflected in the black glass. He looks like a ghostly figure trapped between two realms — hair stuck out at all angles, fingers entwined at the back of his head. He really should hang up. Put an end to this fucking charade.

He will. When Cyril comes in.

There's a deep cough and a slurred word from the coffee table. Alfie doesn't turn, he watches the phone screen flicker in the glass, as if seeing it in reverse somehow means he ain't complicit.  

"M'sorry," the phone-voice says, and Alfie closes his eyes, holds his hands briefly over his ears.

"Tommy" —he turns back towards the room— "go the fuck to bed, alright?"

The line goes quiet once more, save for the distinctive slosh of liquid against glass. "I know you don't wanna hear it."

Oh how much Alfie wishes that were true. He squats in front of the little screen, rests his head in his hands. How many nights has he spent searching for an explanation he could stomach? Bargaining with unknown gods for Tommy to deliver anything close to a palatable excuse? He listens to Tommy swallow. His heart feels like a butterfly being squashed by a giant fist.

"S'true. I'm so fucking sorry. If I could just ... if I could go back, Alfie—"

Alfie stands too suddenly. Strides away, black spots speckling his vision. He wrenches open the back door. "Cyril!" he bellows into the night. "Get your arse back in here." His skin feels hot in the gush of cool air. His pulse unaccountably fast. He slams the door and locks it, ushering Cyril towards the stairs. "Bed!" he barks at the dog. Cyril makes his way out to the hall, obedient in the way he only is when he likes the order.

The phone remains silent as Alfie checks the kitchen window, locks the front door, turns off the TV. He glares at the coffee table, willing Tommy to speak. Or not to speak. He doesn't fucking know. He picks the phone up, thumb hovering over the power button. It's a simple enough fucking thing: switch it off, go to bed.

"Don't go." Tommy's voice is a whisper, so quiet it makes Alfie jump.

"Go to sleep, Tommy," he sighs and takes the phone upstairs. Cyril has already settled down at the foot of his bed, in the dark.

"Can't," comes Tommy's voice, thick and tired and undercut with that little thread of defiance that Alfie's too weary to deal with. 

"Well some of us have to, mate." He puts the phone on his bedside without turning on the lamp — the shroud of darkness makes all of this somehow more deniable. He pulls off his clothes and shuffles beneath the duvet, the silence hammering at his ears.

"Good night." He means to sound final, but his voice is too soft, too quiet.

"Leave your phone on."

"Tommy. This has got to stop."

"Please."

"Why do you only ring me when you're out of your fucking tree?" He doesn't expect an answer. Doesn't get one neither.

"Please. Alfie."

"Fuck's sake. Five minutes, alright?" He turns over, closes his eyes. 

Next thing he knows, it's light and there's a sick feeling in his stomach. He reaches out for his phone; the screen is black, the battery dead. He tucks it under his chin.

At the bottom of the bed Cyril huffs and rolls over, but refuses to take his usual spot on the other pillow. He peers up at Alfie with a disapproving look.

"I know, mate." Alfie sighs. "I fuckin' know, alright?"

"If I already know it, then why the secrecy?" Tommy questioned, arching a brow.

"Because without it, it wouldn't really feel like a secret, would it?"

"Yeah, it wouldn't feel like a secret!" Alfie agreed with a cheeky grin. Thomas narrowed his eyes as he watched his brother lean in and whisper in Alfie's ear. He watched as a smile stretched across his face and he glanced at Thomas then back at Arthur. "No shit?!"

"Go on, try it if you don't believe me!" Arthur goaded. "Don't worry, he won't bite. Usually. Just mostly bark."

Alfie snorted. "Mostly."

Thomas straightened in his seat as Alfie stood, walking over to sit on the arm of his chair, and furrowed his brows.

"Right then, what'd he tell you?" he asked, looking up at that shit eating grin shining through a thick beard.

"I s'pose I could tell you... But I'd rather show you."

He was about to ask just what the hell that was supposed to mean, when a hand reached up and scratched behind his ear. He was drunk and taken off guard, scrunching his neck as surprised giggles poured out before he could stop himself and Alfie froze. They looked at each other with wide eyes before he turned to his brother.

"Arthur what the fuck?" Perhaps it would've been more threatening if his face wasn't so flushed, or if he didn't have a smile playing at the edge of his mouth. Said man just shrugged, a very satisfied look on his face.

"What? We're all havin' a bit of fun. Figured it's been a while since I tortured you," he teased.

"You wouldn't," he challenged.

"Mmm, maybe not," Arthur conceded with a shrug, ducking his head down to stare at the floor. He tilted his chin up to meet his gaze, now sporting a devilish smirk. "But he would," he said matter of factly and pointed at Alfie, who now had both hands hovering around his ears, poised to strike.

He was about to yell out to wait when he dove in, tracing the shells of his ears and scribbling his fingers up and down his neck. He had no hope of holding back the boyish giggles that burst from where they had been buried deep in his chest.

"An' here I was thinkin' he didn't know how to laugh!" Alfie teased, continuing the ticklish assault. He growled at the playful taunt, gritting his teeth together to trap whatever embarrassing noises his body was trying to make. His face was scrunched adorably from the effort it took to hold in his laughter and a wide grin was nearly splitting his face in two. It was a rare and blessed sight to behold.

"I really gotta thank you Arthur, this is the best gift anyone's ever given me," he praised, pinning Tommy to the chair with his knee in his lap. "Gonna come in handy quite often I think," he added with an evil chuckle of his own. He was laughing right in his ear, and the low grumbling tenor shot tingles down his back and he squealed.

"Oh? What's this then?" he asked, clearly amused as he took advantage of their proximity and rubbed his scruff against his neck. Thomas spasmed and screamed in laughter, occasionally brown up by shrieks and snorts and he flailed about.

"Oh Jehesus Chrihihist, Alfihihihihehehe!" he screamed through hysterics, back arched while he pounded a hand against his back. Alfie leaned away to give him a breather, flashing him the widest smile he thinks he's ever seen.

"What's the matter Tommy? You ticklish or somethin'?" he let out a loud, heart laugh as if it was the funniest joke and slapped him on the shoulder. Arthur tossed his head back with an amused chuckle and Thomas groaned slumping forward.

"I'm never gonna live this down, am I?"

"Not likely."

He shot a glare at Alfie, though the unshakable grin severely dampened the effect.

"You tell anyone and I'll kill you slowly-"

"Mhm."

"And painfully."

"Okay."

Tommy wants to be mad. Should be mad. But he can't find it in himself to be upset, still feeling far too giggly to hold a grudge. Besides, he needed the laugh.