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He’d known about the wedding before he received the invitation. A friend of a friend of a little birdie who heard news from the side of the sea. It wasn’t so much an invitation as it was a formality, an olive branch with an assumption of good intent on the ends of both parties. But Tommy knew to expect it, so it didn’t hurt, it just sat there on his chest. He didn’t care to respond or check in when he knew it was happening, used to busying his mind in such a way feelings don’t rise up. The day came and went, he had to let go of Lizzie and Charlie, let go of his family and his home, he had to arrange his own funeral, and shoot his cousin in the head. There was no time to care about a wedding.
And then it came and went and time came and went and Michael was laying outside growing cold and suddenly Alfie was here. And he was talking about his wife. There it was again, the weight on Tommy’s chest, finally asking him to reckon with it. The weight of holding your breath underwater, clawing yourself to the surface even though it was just there, just out of reach, so close you could feel the distorted rays of the sun but no way to relax in it.
“Tommy,” Alfie’s voice, strong, targeted, cut through the water. Tommy blinked and finally turned to look at his company. “What’s goin’ on in there, hm? Silence does not a conversation make. Did anyone teach you that?”
Silence, yes.
The bar was stale. The chairs and counter tops seemed to understand something awful had just taken place and were waiting to settle back in, the two men seemingly took up valuable time in the process. Tommy’s glass was empty and he was aching for another drink but Alfie’s presence made him feel like he was being watched, judged, like a child willing the juice to pour after they’d already been told no. Silence was better than permission.
He cleared his throat softly. “What can I say to you, Alfie?”
They stared at each other for a moment before Alfie sighed and took off his hat and slowly brushed a hand over his head, fussing up his hair. The light from the window behind Alfie made him glow, like an apparition, like a saint, like a savior. Tommy’s heart clenched, he’d missed him. He was none of these things, of course. Just a man. Just two men.
Alfie’s eyes closed for a moment, and Tommy kept staring. “I wish I could have a peek, yeah. A little.. hint, into your mind.” He stepped closer, into Tommy’s space. “You are not as hard to read as you’d like to think you are, Tom, but I am not the fortune teller between us, so I’d like some assistance. If you don’t mind.”
Tommy scoffed and shook himself to face forward again. His glass was empty and he felt the weight strapping his lungs. He took out the cigarette case from his jacket and rubbed one against his lips. A soother, like a child. “Nothing, Alfie, nothing is going on.” He struck a match and waited for the inhale to hit him like the first breath coming up from the sea. Instead of shocking relief he just felt, nothing more.
“Fuck me, mate, I’m not stupid.” For all of Alfie’s previous talk about hating the smoke he seemed to understand Tommy needed a distraction every time he lit up. But he waited, and nodded. “Nothing, nothing going on. Okay, okay-”
“Christ, Alfie, what do you want? Hm? You want to psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m going fucking crazy because I would rather not talk about, what, fucking feelings?” He felt like he was going to be sick.
“Oh, it’s your feelings, is it, treacle? I didn’t know you had any left.” Alfie leaned into the counter, invading Tommy’s eyeline, enveloping himself in the smoke. “You don’t want to talk about my wife?”
“I don’t care about your fucking wife.”
“I don’t think you care about yours, either.”
Tommy let his eyes finally snap back up, Alfie already looking at him. That fucking scar already looking at him. The mangled flesh a present reminder in both their lives of who they really are and what they can never really run away from. Tommy thinks about that day often, it might have been easier if he was able to just kill Alfie, leave his memory on the beach for Cyril to lick up and be done with. But he’s here, both of them are, and there’s unfinished business and unsaid feelings. Just two men.
Tommy feels his eyes twist up at the mention of Lizzie, and he knows Alfie’s right. Marriage is something that happens to you in his life. You get a woman pregnant and either send her to the woman in an anonymous apartment or to the chapel. Or a deal between families is made. Or you think yourself a better man than you really are. Thinking of Lizzie makes him think of Grace, and thinking of Grace makes him think of Alfie, and thinking of Alfie makes him sick again.
Alfie’s eyes make him feel seen. The ash on the end of his cigarette is burning away.
“Alfie,—” Tommy’s voice is caught in his throat. “Alfie, what do you want.” One of them has to say it. One of them has to say it so the other can finally breach the surface.
Alfie tuts and lets his gaze drift out and back. “Thomas,” He lets out a breath. “I want you to be honest with me. I feel we’ve known each other long enough to owe one another fucking honesty, yeah?”
Tommy works his tongue in his mouth, convincing himself he’s thirsty or hot or cold, taking another drag and pretending the lurching he feels is the shift in the air. “Honesty.”
“Honesty. Simple enough, innit.”
The pounding in his chest became too great to ignore, he could hear it in his ears. Tommy wasn’t prone to blushing but he could tell the tips were blazing. It is simple. A simple sentence. A confession. The heat on his ears and the clenching of chest and the unforgiving attempt to will others into action, like a fucking child. Like a fucking child kneeling in the booth next to a priest who promised your words were between him and God. But once you begin to speak, the words are out there, your secrets laid bare for judgment, for punishment, for penance.
There was nothing he could say that Alfie didn’t know, but isn’t that the worst of it? Being known?
“Thomas,—”
Tommy cleared his throat. “Alfie, I can’t.”
“You have to.”
“I can’t.” He shook his head and averted his eyes. “You’ve got a family now.”
“Thomas.” And then there was a hand on his chin, dragging him back to the scarring, to the decision, to the clenching in his chest. The grip was far too gentle for what Tommy thought he deserved. “I’m here, aren’t I? Came all this way, didn’t I? You think I’m here for a vacation?” And there it was. Alfie’s eyes had turned soft, and his grip had turned strong. And Tommy could hardly face it anymore.
“Alfie,” hardly a whisper. “I can’t—” He let his eyes close to try and force himself inward. The pounding, the clenching, the guilt, inward. The light changed and the air changed and the grip on his chin turned to a cradle and he could smell Alfie before he felt the press against his forehead. He started to tremble.
“Tommy, sweetie,” soft, quiet, breath against his lips. “Look at me, please.”
And this was it. The moment of relief, the air in his lungs, the feeling of gasping for breath and unclouded hearing and sun on his face. Up from the water as he opened his eyes and Alfie was so close they were sharing breath, he couldn’t even see beyond him anymore. “You. It’s just— I,” the hand that wasn’t stretched out on the bar, burning with a cigarette, found its way to Alfie’s shoulder, his neck, his hair. “Alfie, it’s you. I just want you.”
As much as he wanted to turn away again, hide, the light on Alfie’s eyes was too captivating. He could see the next decision come between them but this one wasn’t a reminder, it wasn’t regret. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and even though Tommy wasn’t looking he knew what lay on Alfie’s lips was the closest thing to a smile he could muster. Alfie’s lips. And the next thing Tommy knew, felt, was those lips on his own, hard and so soft.
He let his eyes close once more, not to hide but to relax. He wasn’t sure when the cigarette fell from his fingers but his hand was suddenly empty enough to allow it to reach up and meet the other behind Alfie’s head. And it hurt, how much Alfie was pressing into him, their teeth on opposing sides of skin until, oh, the heat of Alfie’s tongue opening him up. And it was proper kissing. Tongues and lips and teeth and gasping breaths in between them. And Alfie’s hand on his face and his stomach, grasping at his waistcoat, a finger through the buttons. So, so close.
With a final swipe of tongue across Tommy’s teeth, Alfie pulled back to stand straight, letting out a long breath. He would’ve been embarrassed with the way he chased him if he didn’t feel the tug of Alfie’s finger in his vest, the grazing of his hand across his face into his hair. Tommy let his eyes fall open, and the pounding was back in his ears, the clenching was back in his heart, but the weight was gone. The weight was gone. He blinked and his hands smoothed down Alfie’s chest. Still trembling.
“You’re a desperate little thing, aren’t you?” Alfie hummed. Tommy couldn’t help but smile beside himself, shaking his head and pushing Alfie away from him, hands tangled in the lapels of his coat. Alfie tightened his grip on Tommy’s vest, forcing them to sway together before he steadied them both. “Yeah, hm, you can’t even take it. My silly boy.”
Along with the pounding and the clenching, the heat was back now, too. His ears, his eyes, his cheeks. It’s all Alfie’s now, all of it for him.
Tommy found himself at a loss for words. In all the years they’ve known each other, all the arguments and the passion and the blood, there’s been something else to say, another point to get across. And now it’s just Alfie.