my boy builds coffins {FIC: Peaky Blinders; Tommy & Arthur}
Title: my boy builds coffins
Author: turquoisetumult
Rating: PG-13 (for cursing; suicide ideation)
Word Count: 1642
Characters/Pairings: Arthur Shelby, Tommy Shelby
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Character studies?
Disclaimer: I don't own Peaky Blinders or its characters.
Prompt: Written for: Peaky Blinders Exchange Round Two: Season 5 Edition
Summary:
for better or worse...
---
As you inhale deeply, forcing the oxygen back in you, you don’t know whether to laugh or cry when you realize Tommy took his own advice from all those years ago. (Your neck suddenly tight now, an invisible noose of paralyzing fear and worry around you.)Tommy had used a gun.
---
Tommy's at an all-time low. Arthur finds him at the end of S5 and gets to play the role of big brother.
In a few years, you might call it funny.
Funny, how the tables have turned.
That you, with flames constantly nipping at your heels and the burning desire to release more power from your fists than even the most potent factory in all of Birmingham, decided to once end it with a taut, untattered noose. (You remember the fires then completely extinguished. Remember feeling the stool beneath your feet, sturdy and unyielding under your weight; how stinging eyes freed quiet tears in a quiescent, murky boxing ring as you stepped off of it.)
And fucking Tommy, always so disciplined and fastidious, is found charging and screaming in a grey field with a cold gun pressed to his right temple. (You don’t know how Tom could’ve possibly heard you cry his name, over the guttural, raucous yell that emitted from his mouth. Still, the strident toll of the gun as a distracted Tommy fired, will ring in your ears until the day your own signed bullet makes its mark to claim your life.)
Well. Maybe funny’s not the word, you think. Irony, then. Like them educated people, the Michaels of the bloody world, might say.
Your legs somehow are able to support your heart, heavy with anxiety, as they race toward Tommy, now kneeling in the muddy ground, clasping his hands over his ears. He’s still screaming, voice hoarse and croaky, negligible hiccups between weak and raspy pants.
The fires beneath your heels do something useful for once and help you reach your brother quickly enough. Sliding in beside him, you peel his right-hand fingers off his face, checking for crimson blood.
Not a scratch, you breathe in relief. Not a fucking graze, not one bloody sign of this attempt, of needing to explain why Tommy’s brains were being kept in place by gauze to Pol and Lizzie, not to mention an inquisitive Charlie and terrified Ruby.
Christ!
Left hand trailing his cheek while the other grasps his shoulder, gently, (the same way Tommy’s decade-younger and smoother hand gripped yours, warmth and sympathy emanating from it), you tug his face inward, his screams muffled against your chest.
“The fuck were you thinking, Tom!?”
You yank him away from you. “Eh!? Answer me!” Then softer, afraid of your own ire, a slight tremble in your throat: “Fucking give me some bloody answer, Tommy.”
Tommy’s bellowing stops and he starts to draw big intakes of breath, gasping for oxygen, like a drowning man. He mutters, “It’s still…” another puff of air, “still so fucking loud.” He sinks lower, shoulders arching upward, speaking down to his knees. “Why’s it so goddamn loud?”
You haven’t a clue what he’s on about. So you just tug him toward you again and cradle him, swaying from side to side, smoothing out his hair, the way you did when his small body fit snugly in your arms.
As you inhale deeply, forcing the oxygen back in you, you don’t know whether to laugh or cry when you realize Tommy took his own advice from all those years ago. (Your neck suddenly tight now, an invisible noose of paralyzing fear and worry around you.)
Tommy had used a gun.
***
There’s a moment where you jolt back to wakefulness.
You hadn’t been sleeping; you know this. [Eyes peeled open, dry and fixed, absently (mockingly), upon Grace’s photograph.] But you weren’t quite cognizant either.
You notice it’s quieter now. The monotonous heaving sounds in your mind have stilled, and they’ve taken Grace and her tempting pleas with them, but you fear they are simply lying in wait.
Roaring flames dance before you, as you find yourself in your favorite leather armchair. Arthur sits across from you, hands wringing and worry straining his forehead.
Without hesitation, you draw in a sudden breath and lurch from your chair, already walking past Arthur.
Arthur shoots up from his own seat and captures your wrist.
“Tommy,” he murmurs, gently, like a lullaby. (Not a fucking kid no more, Arthur. Haven’t been for a long time now…)
You try to yank your wrist, but his grip is firm.
“You’ve got to… got to get your head on straight, broth-“
You try pulling away again and declare, “You have to move around!”
Arthur’s eyebrows drop, wrinkles prominent at the root of his nose. “What?”
“You have to move around … else, the guilt catches up to you.”
Arthur loosens his vise-like grip on you and lets go. “Guilt…”
“Us gypsies made the nails for Jesus’s crucifix. Did ya know that?” You wait, wanting to see his reaction. He stands dumbfounded, confused. “Yeah… yeah.”
“Maybe,” Arthur concedes. “But it weren’t you that handed them over.”
A short huff of air exits your nostrils, sneering at your own grim realization. “Doesn’t fucking matter, does it? My hand still shakes like that of a normal man when I blow out a friend’s brains.”
Minutely shaking his head, as if trying to clear the image of Mickey's scarlet blood over the Garrison's table and ceiling, Arthur assures, “You did what you had to.”
Your brother’s words barely penetrate your ears, before you continue. “The real fucker of it all though, Arthur, … is that I tried to do the right fucking thing.
“Tell me, brother,” you swallow thickly, attempting to shove down the lump in your throat. “Why is it that things end up shit when I do the right thing ‘stead of the thing that just feels…” (Lizzie’s words, pounding in your head-) “…nice?”
You chuckle. The film in your head, of every conversation you had in the past week, relentless, playing on a loop. “A tent. Then a boat. Then a house. Now a mansion. Should fucking leave it at that, eh? And just piss off. Like Mum.”
There’s a moment of utter silence, both of you frozen. In your head, you start counting. The soldier’s minute.
What’s to happen next?
(But the future's no longer your concern. That hasn't changed.)
Then, Arthur simply smirks and adds, “You know, Tommy… ya always were a sore loser.”
Your facial movements, always so imperceptible and measured, spring to life as you scrunch your forehead in confusion.
“Oh, boo-bloody-hoo. Ya think you’ve found the man you can’t defeat? We are not relics, Tom. We are the not old-fashioned, backstreet razor gang Michael makes us out to be. We are the Peaky fucking Blinders. We’ll take the eyes of anyone who can’t fucking see that, as they’ve no need for broken sight anyway.
“When you were eight, you took sixpence and came home with a top hat and a coconut. And Mum beat your skinny arse for days on end because of it. But Ada wore the hat for weeks, playing and pretending with it, and John took the coconut to school and showed off some expensive and exotic fruit ‘til the teacher had to write home about it. And you took the beatings and you never once let it stop you from doing the shit that needed to be done to take care of our family.
“I ain’t saying this life isn’t without its cost. God bloody knows, I’d be more than happy to just give it to the new generation and leave this place. Not denying that. We can go, Tommy. Leave it all behind. Don’t let your pride get in the way of that.
“But if you want your grandkids to be born in fucking Buckingham Palace, then there’s nothing stopping ya. Not Michael Grey, with his swelled head bigger than his ballsack, not that Fascist fucker, and certainly not an invisible, undefeatable man, hiding backstage. You are Thomas Michael Shelby, and you are the smartest and most capable bastard that I know. If you need to keep moving to quiet the guilt, then do it. Just keep doing it standing tall.”
“Yeah?” he asks, needing confirmation that you hear him (that you believe him).
You don’t. Not fully, but you love him enough to heed his words, so you respond, a quick nod of your head, “Yeah.”
He gently clamps your shoulder, before running the same hand to clasp the back of your head, drawing you close for an embrace. It’s meant to be brief (a clap on the back, a peck in the hair), but you think about how the men that took Barney nearly took him too, and you hold on tight, just for a second longer.
“Fuck,” you exhale, departing from your brother’s arms. “Barney. Aberama.”
Crossing his arms protectively, Arthur gazes down.
“We’ll have to salute them with a drink,” you say, making your way to your decanter of whiskey and two clean glasses.
Suddenly, you pause, lingering there, once you’ve popped off the lid.
“All right, Tom?”
“These hands, Arthur…” you stare at your palms, fingernails trimmed and clean, and concealing the violence they’ve encountered (through good and bad intentions). “They’ve known so much blood. I wonder if they could just go back to shoveling horse shit, if I wanted them to.”
Tommy turns to his head to the side, enough to see him contemplating. His eyes avert yours, gazing at his own hands, the slight tremble in them made visible in the firelight’s bright glow.
Finally, Arthur shrugs. “Maybe… maybe, it just doesn’t matter, Tommy. The devil’s hands can dig just as much as any man’s. No horse will know the difference.”
“And you?” (You mean to say: Would your fingers remember how the pain of a callous beneath the cold of the shovel’s metal? You mean to say: Could you possibly forget about your wife and child?)
You mean to say: Would you join me?
“No,” he says and your heart sinks just a little. (You’d forgotten it was there.) “I won’t know the difference either.”
With a wink and a curve of his lips, Arthur adds: “Now, baby brother, get us a drink, will ya?”
Author: turquoisetumult
Rating: PG-13 (for cursing; suicide ideation)
Word Count: 1642
Characters/Pairings: Arthur Shelby, Tommy Shelby
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Character studies?
Disclaimer: I don't own Peaky Blinders or its characters.
Prompt: Written for: Peaky Blinders Exchange Round Two: Season 5 Edition
Summary:
for better or worse...
---
As you inhale deeply, forcing the oxygen back in you, you don’t know whether to laugh or cry when you realize Tommy took his own advice from all those years ago. (Your neck suddenly tight now, an invisible noose of paralyzing fear and worry around you.)Tommy had used a gun.
---
Tommy's at an all-time low. Arthur finds him at the end of S5 and gets to play the role of big brother.
In a few years, you might call it funny.
Funny, how the tables have turned.
That you, with flames constantly nipping at your heels and the burning desire to release more power from your fists than even the most potent factory in all of Birmingham, decided to once end it with a taut, untattered noose. (You remember the fires then completely extinguished. Remember feeling the stool beneath your feet, sturdy and unyielding under your weight; how stinging eyes freed quiet tears in a quiescent, murky boxing ring as you stepped off of it.)
And fucking Tommy, always so disciplined and fastidious, is found charging and screaming in a grey field with a cold gun pressed to his right temple. (You don’t know how Tom could’ve possibly heard you cry his name, over the guttural, raucous yell that emitted from his mouth. Still, the strident toll of the gun as a distracted Tommy fired, will ring in your ears until the day your own signed bullet makes its mark to claim your life.)
Well. Maybe funny’s not the word, you think. Irony, then. Like them educated people, the Michaels of the bloody world, might say.
Your legs somehow are able to support your heart, heavy with anxiety, as they race toward Tommy, now kneeling in the muddy ground, clasping his hands over his ears. He’s still screaming, voice hoarse and croaky, negligible hiccups between weak and raspy pants.
The fires beneath your heels do something useful for once and help you reach your brother quickly enough. Sliding in beside him, you peel his right-hand fingers off his face, checking for crimson blood.
Not a scratch, you breathe in relief. Not a fucking graze, not one bloody sign of this attempt, of needing to explain why Tommy’s brains were being kept in place by gauze to Pol and Lizzie, not to mention an inquisitive Charlie and terrified Ruby.
Christ!
Left hand trailing his cheek while the other grasps his shoulder, gently, (the same way Tommy’s decade-younger and smoother hand gripped yours, warmth and sympathy emanating from it), you tug his face inward, his screams muffled against your chest.
“The fuck were you thinking, Tom!?”
You yank him away from you. “Eh!? Answer me!” Then softer, afraid of your own ire, a slight tremble in your throat: “Fucking give me some bloody answer, Tommy.”
Tommy’s bellowing stops and he starts to draw big intakes of breath, gasping for oxygen, like a drowning man. He mutters, “It’s still…” another puff of air, “still so fucking loud.” He sinks lower, shoulders arching upward, speaking down to his knees. “Why’s it so goddamn loud?”
You haven’t a clue what he’s on about. So you just tug him toward you again and cradle him, swaying from side to side, smoothing out his hair, the way you did when his small body fit snugly in your arms.
As you inhale deeply, forcing the oxygen back in you, you don’t know whether to laugh or cry when you realize Tommy took his own advice from all those years ago. (Your neck suddenly tight now, an invisible noose of paralyzing fear and worry around you.)
Tommy had used a gun.
***
There’s a moment where you jolt back to wakefulness.
You hadn’t been sleeping; you know this. [Eyes peeled open, dry and fixed, absently (mockingly), upon Grace’s photograph.] But you weren’t quite cognizant either.
You notice it’s quieter now. The monotonous heaving sounds in your mind have stilled, and they’ve taken Grace and her tempting pleas with them, but you fear they are simply lying in wait.
Roaring flames dance before you, as you find yourself in your favorite leather armchair. Arthur sits across from you, hands wringing and worry straining his forehead.
Without hesitation, you draw in a sudden breath and lurch from your chair, already walking past Arthur.
Arthur shoots up from his own seat and captures your wrist.
“Tommy,” he murmurs, gently, like a lullaby. (Not a fucking kid no more, Arthur. Haven’t been for a long time now…)
You try to yank your wrist, but his grip is firm.
“You’ve got to… got to get your head on straight, broth-“
You try pulling away again and declare, “You have to move around!”
Arthur’s eyebrows drop, wrinkles prominent at the root of his nose. “What?”
“You have to move around … else, the guilt catches up to you.”
Arthur loosens his vise-like grip on you and lets go. “Guilt…”
“Us gypsies made the nails for Jesus’s crucifix. Did ya know that?” You wait, wanting to see his reaction. He stands dumbfounded, confused. “Yeah… yeah.”
“Maybe,” Arthur concedes. “But it weren’t you that handed them over.”
A short huff of air exits your nostrils, sneering at your own grim realization. “Doesn’t fucking matter, does it? My hand still shakes like that of a normal man when I blow out a friend’s brains.”
Minutely shaking his head, as if trying to clear the image of Mickey's scarlet blood over the Garrison's table and ceiling, Arthur assures, “You did what you had to.”
Your brother’s words barely penetrate your ears, before you continue. “The real fucker of it all though, Arthur, … is that I tried to do the right fucking thing.
“Tell me, brother,” you swallow thickly, attempting to shove down the lump in your throat. “Why is it that things end up shit when I do the right thing ‘stead of the thing that just feels…” (Lizzie’s words, pounding in your head-) “…nice?”
You chuckle. The film in your head, of every conversation you had in the past week, relentless, playing on a loop. “A tent. Then a boat. Then a house. Now a mansion. Should fucking leave it at that, eh? And just piss off. Like Mum.”
There’s a moment of utter silence, both of you frozen. In your head, you start counting. The soldier’s minute.
What’s to happen next?
(But the future's no longer your concern. That hasn't changed.)
Then, Arthur simply smirks and adds, “You know, Tommy… ya always were a sore loser.”
Your facial movements, always so imperceptible and measured, spring to life as you scrunch your forehead in confusion.
“Oh, boo-bloody-hoo. Ya think you’ve found the man you can’t defeat? We are not relics, Tom. We are the not old-fashioned, backstreet razor gang Michael makes us out to be. We are the Peaky fucking Blinders. We’ll take the eyes of anyone who can’t fucking see that, as they’ve no need for broken sight anyway.
“When you were eight, you took sixpence and came home with a top hat and a coconut. And Mum beat your skinny arse for days on end because of it. But Ada wore the hat for weeks, playing and pretending with it, and John took the coconut to school and showed off some expensive and exotic fruit ‘til the teacher had to write home about it. And you took the beatings and you never once let it stop you from doing the shit that needed to be done to take care of our family.
“I ain’t saying this life isn’t without its cost. God bloody knows, I’d be more than happy to just give it to the new generation and leave this place. Not denying that. We can go, Tommy. Leave it all behind. Don’t let your pride get in the way of that.
“But if you want your grandkids to be born in fucking Buckingham Palace, then there’s nothing stopping ya. Not Michael Grey, with his swelled head bigger than his ballsack, not that Fascist fucker, and certainly not an invisible, undefeatable man, hiding backstage. You are Thomas Michael Shelby, and you are the smartest and most capable bastard that I know. If you need to keep moving to quiet the guilt, then do it. Just keep doing it standing tall.”
“Yeah?” he asks, needing confirmation that you hear him (that you believe him).
You don’t. Not fully, but you love him enough to heed his words, so you respond, a quick nod of your head, “Yeah.”
He gently clamps your shoulder, before running the same hand to clasp the back of your head, drawing you close for an embrace. It’s meant to be brief (a clap on the back, a peck in the hair), but you think about how the men that took Barney nearly took him too, and you hold on tight, just for a second longer.
“Fuck,” you exhale, departing from your brother’s arms. “Barney. Aberama.”
Crossing his arms protectively, Arthur gazes down.
“We’ll have to salute them with a drink,” you say, making your way to your decanter of whiskey and two clean glasses.
Suddenly, you pause, lingering there, once you’ve popped off the lid.
“All right, Tom?”
“These hands, Arthur…” you stare at your palms, fingernails trimmed and clean, and concealing the violence they’ve encountered (through good and bad intentions). “They’ve known so much blood. I wonder if they could just go back to shoveling horse shit, if I wanted them to.”
Tommy turns to his head to the side, enough to see him contemplating. His eyes avert yours, gazing at his own hands, the slight tremble in them made visible in the firelight’s bright glow.
Finally, Arthur shrugs. “Maybe… maybe, it just doesn’t matter, Tommy. The devil’s hands can dig just as much as any man’s. No horse will know the difference.”
“And you?” (You mean to say: Would your fingers remember how the pain of a callous beneath the cold of the shovel’s metal? You mean to say: Could you possibly forget about your wife and child?)
You mean to say: Would you join me?
“No,” he says and your heart sinks just a little. (You’d forgotten it was there.) “I won’t know the difference either.”
With a wink and a curve of his lips, Arthur adds: “Now, baby brother, get us a drink, will ya?”