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dont-offend-the-bees · 4 months ago

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Lived My Whole Life Before the First Light

Omg here we are. At the end. I'm sad, I've been having such a blast with you guys this week! But all good things... Anyway, this is a strange one, rambling and mournful but hopefully with some sweetness. I hope it makes you feel things, I hope it gives you something, I hope we part on this final day of Painland Week as friends and confidants 💛 Huge, huge thanks to the organisers of Painland Week for putting this magical event together! Special love on this day goes out to @mellxncollie , who has been creating amazing gifs all week and has made beautiful ones for this very fic. It's been so so wonderful to collab with you and everyone should go and look at these wonderful creations at ONCE. Warnings for canonical character death (sorry, Charles) and the stuff that comes with it (i.e. refs to bullying/hatecrimes), non-graphic injury description, and just general mournful grief vibes all round. But hopeful ending bc let's face it, we all know how this played out! 7.3k, M-rated, available on Ao3. Thanks again, @painlandweek!

"Colour! What a deep and mysterious language. The language of dreams."

~ Paul Gauguin

Edwin Payne had always possessed a thirst for knowledge. As a child, he'd wished to learn just about everything there was to learn — every fact in every field. He'd been told, many times, that he could live to be a hundred years old, and still not have enough hours to do so.

Edwin had most certainly not lived to be a hundred. But he supposed that if you added his sixteen years of life to his seventy-three of death, he was getting rather close.

The dead years, however, had been far from conducive to study. Knowledge was hard to come by in Hell. Found either in burnt and bloodied books scavenged from individual damnations, or delivered in the form of cruel trials. He'd been taught a lesson or two in his time, but not on anything so polite and pedestrian as geometry. Edwin's key area of personal study in Hell had been one thing, and one thing only: how to escape from it.

It had taken seven decades, a slew of disembowelments and innumerable failed attempts, but at last he'd passed his final exam with merit. Or at least, a version of him had. But there wasn't much to be done for his original self, whose body lay mouldering on the dollhouse floor beneath a thousand savaged duplicates.

Best not to dwell on it.

He supposed he should have been upset about where the door to Hell spat him out. Not many people would be happy to return to the place where they'd met their untimely, violent demise. But to Edwin, after a small infinity in the blackest pit, stepping back into St. Hilarion's hallowed halls felt like greeting an old friend. Well, friend might be a tad generous. More of an acquaintance, or perhaps a second cousin one barely tolerated. Not a person one enjoyed spending time with, but nonetheless a familiar face.

For a day or so he'd wandered about in a bit of a daze, glancing over his shoulder for any sign he'd been followed from the depths. He'd drunk in every familiar feature, and puzzled over the unfamiliar ones. It was a small change in the grand scheme of things, but he suspected they'd replaced the drapes. They were a lighter grey now than they had been in his time. He wondered what colour they'd chosen — or for that matter, what colour they were in the first place. He'd never thought to ask.

Then on his second day of wandering, he'd stumbled across the old library. And that, for several weeks, had been that.

He'd probably had dreams about this, in his youth. Dreams of being left to his own devices, surrounded by books. All the information he could inhale, with no interruptions. Not even from the other boys. Their voices had startled him a few times, and he was always wary when a gaggle of them descended on the library. But he'd quickly realised that none of them could see him, and so long as he turned the pages quietly, he was free to continue his reading unmolested.

And he did so, continuously, for days. Not even boring old human restrictions like hunger, tiredness or eye strain could stop him now. He read everything he could get his hands on, brushed up on everything, filling in the gaps of the last decades. On the future that had been robbed from him, subsiding into history while his back was turned. He'd sat in his own shellshock when he read not only about how the so-called 'war to end all wars' had concluded, but also how little time had passed before the next one. He'd blushed and skimmed the pages pertaining to the nineteen-sixties free love movement. He'd gazed, thunderstruck, at the moon through the library window; wondering what the Earth must have looked like to the man they put up there.

All these years he'd been trapped in the gutters at the deepest depths of suffering, reaching up towards the light; all that time, humanity had been reaching, too. Up, up and up, all the way to the stars.

It became habit, after that, to gaze at the moon in between books and chapters. An opportunity to gather his thoughts on what he'd just read, to file away the facts, to jot down the most pertinent in his notebook. It was rather a meditative process.

Or at least it had been, until the night he'd seen something else beneath that moon. Something tragically earthbound amidst the gently illuminated greys of the grounds. A hunched and trembling shape against the trees, lurching by Edwin's window. A boy, on the run — his pursuers baying for blood like wolves at his heels.

They could put a man on the moon, but some things never changed.

It would be the first time Edwin had left the library since re-discovering it. Holding aloft the pilfered lantern he'd been using to read into the night, he trod carefully through the darkened corridors. The majority of staff and students were in dorms or common rooms by now, voices a soft patter, bleeding with the light under the doors. No one marked Edwin, or came to investigate the lantern floating past. Though some extinguished their own lights and hushed their voices, mistaking him for a warden. Edwin didn't wish to scare anyone, but he drew some comfort from it. He'd grown tired of being pounced upon in long, black, twisting hallways. How comforting for once to be the root of fear and not merely its captive.

Edwin had to search a little while, but he was already familiar with the best hiding places. It wasn't long before he was creeping up to the attic, minding his ghostly tread upon the stairs. He didn't wish to cause alarm, or send the boy deeper into hiding thinking his assailants had found him.

He crossed the threshold, and at once heard a shuddering intake of breath as the harsh white aura of his lantern bounced off the walls. He supposed there was no disguising the glow. He hung back a moment, conflicted. All he wanted was to offer some light and warmth, but perhaps a floating lantern would be a sight too much for the terrified boy. Well, it was too late for that, now. He stepped into the room proper, peering past the flare of his lantern to the source of the sound. A shivering bundle on the floor, tucked into a nook behind the shelves. Trying to be as small as possible and, by and large, succeeding.

Wide, hunted eyes stared into the light. A voice, low and wary, spoke.

"What do you want?"

It was then that Edwin realised the eyes weren't looking into the light. They were looking at him. He glanced behind himself, just to make sure, but he wasn't mistaken. "You can see me?"

It was also when he noticed something equally perplexing happening to the light. It had started to look... less white. No, in fact it no longer looked white at all, but it had not dimmed, and it bore no resemblance to any shade of grey Edwin had ever seen. It was... he didn't even have the language to describe it. If he had to choose a word, he could only say it looked warm. He'd never seen anything like it. Not in seventy years of Hell, nor in his life before. It simply defied description.

He tore his gaze from it. There were more pressing matters to attend to. "I... I thought this lantern might help," he said, still dumbfounded. He approached, with care — this boy was clearly a victim in this circumstance, but there was a defensive set to his jaw. A wild look in his eyes. A creature caught in a trap was as liable to bite a rescuer as an attacker. "You can simply extinguish it if those boys come up here."

The guarded expression cracked, vulnerability bleeding through. As Edwin drew closer, he noticed that the strange new quality of the light was reflected where it hit the boy. There were notes of something else beneath the pallid grey tones of his skin, something richer. Just as something beyond simple black glistened in his enormous eyes.

"You saw them?" the boy rasped.

"I did. I went to school here a long time ago." Edwin knelt before him, bringing the light closer to the lad’s face and marvelling, quietly, at the strange tones that sprang into sharp relief. Whoever this young man was, Edwin's very perception of the world appeared to be shifting in his presence. "We had bullies, too."

He looked so weak, curled up and trembling. He certainly wasn't weak, Edwin suspected that much. Peeking out from beneath the blanket were shoes and trousers of a kind he'd seen these modern boys wearing out on the sports pitch. The lad was no delicate flower, but at this moment, at the mercy of his wounds, he was helpless.

And if he could see Edwin... then his fate was already sealed.

Edwin looked at the boy levelly, at the fear in his strange eyes. He'd seen that fear upon countless faces these last seventy years, on the wretched souls crying out for respite from their torment. He'd worn a similar expression some decades ago, when a careless act of cruelty had damned him, too.

"Rest assured," he said, gently, offering the lantern. "I shan't hurt you."

He could see the moment the boy decided to believe him. His shoulders slumped, his breath escaped in a rattle of relief. He reached out from his blanket shell, and flashed a sliver of that curiously saturated skin at his shoulder. Against the stark white of the sleeveless vest he wore, the difference was now undeniable. Not grey, not white, but something altogether different. Like his eyes, like the metal at his throat and ear that glimmered in the lamplight. Tones Edwin had never seen before, couldn't even name.

It couldn't be...

"Cheers, mate," said the boy, shivering as he brought the lantern closer. "I'm freezing. Never been this cold in my life."

Swallowing, Edwin nodded. "It's the least I can do."

The boy's lips twitched in a feeble half-smile. "Yeah? You mean you can do more?"

Probably not as much as he'd like. But Edwin nodded again. "Of course."

The light shone upon the boy's face and the dark, waterlogged curls of his hair. Steeped in that impossible hue.

"Stick around a bit?" he asked, his voice very small indeed. "Bit lonely up here..."

Edwin had not come here with any plans to stick around. He'd wished to help, of course. But to say he was unaccustomed to dealing with people was a tremendous understatement. He'd planned to drop off the lantern, check the boy was alright, and slip away without a fuss.

But the boy was clearly not alright, half-alive and fading fast. And he'd seen Edwin, asked him in no uncertain terms to stay. Asked him with all the broken hope in his voice and all the impossible buried, blooming hues in his eyes. And if those colours meant what he had always been told…

Well. How could Edwin begrudge his own soulmate a last request?

"My name is Edwin," he said, as measured as he could manage. "Edwin Payne."

The boy grinned. It wobbled at the edges. "Charlie," he introduced himself. "Charles Rowland."

Edwin hummed. Charles. A pleasant name. Respectable. He thought it rather suited the young man. "A pleasure to meet you, Charles."

Charles chuckled, drawing the lantern closer to himself. "Pretty bloody brills to meet you, too, Edwin."

The colour — for it surely was a colour, Edwin knew of no other word or explanation — of the lantern seemed to pulse, then settle, stronger than before. It illuminated the feeble grin upon Charles' drawn face in hues as yet unnamed.

Edwin would have to find some names. Compare what he could see with what he'd been told, what he'd read. Identify what he could.

While he still had the chance.

"Best thing to happen to me all night," Charles mumbled. "You showing up."

Edwin wished to tell him things could only improve from here; but he knew it to be a lie.

"It is the color closest to light. In its utmost purity, it always implies the nature of brightness and has a cheerful, serene, gently stimulating character. Hence, experience teaches us that yellow makes a thoroughly warm and comforting impression."

~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

"Just didn't seem right. Letting that kid get beat on 'cause he's from Pakistan," said Charles.

His socks peeked out from the blanket, bright white in the lamplight. Interesting — a part of Edwin had always presumed that white would look vastly different with the rest of the spectrum unlocked. It didn't, but there was much less of it. The world was full of more off-whites in more hues than Edwin could've previously imagined. Charles' skin wasn't dissimilar. Pale-ish, but bearing pleasant warm under-and-overtones that made Edwin's look near-translucent by comparison.

"I mean, I'm half Indian," Charles continued. "Why am I so different?"

"That is a fair point," said Edwin, thoughtful, harkening back to some of the history books he'd skimmed of late. "They were the same country back when I was alive."

Fascinating how the times changed, new lines drawn in the sand. Fascinating, and frustrating. In the time Edwin had been gone wars had started and ended, entire countries had been ruptured, borders reshaped. And yet some of life's most persistent mysteries remained unanswered.

He'd not looked much into it, but it seemed little advancement had been made in understanding of the so-called 'soulmate' principle. It had been a frequent enough phenomenon to be common knowledge in Edwin's time, but no one ever had any real explanation for it. Plenty of spiritual explanations, of course. But it seemed no one could point to any tangible scientific reason why a person, upon hearing the voice of a certain other person, had the entire hidden colour spectrum revealed unto them. An entire dimension of the visible world remained inaccessible to the vast majority of the population, and still no one knew why, or even how. Clearly, there was still much research to be done on the subject.

And clearly, the notion of this mysterious person as a 'soulmate' was romantic drivel. Charles seemed a pleasant fellow, but he was a fellow. And two boys could hardly be soulmates, could they? No God-fearing Christian would embrace the concept if that were the case. So no, Charles couldn't possibly be his soulmate. Perhaps the phenomenon represented something else entirely. Like minds? Charles seemed an easy boy to get on with — and Edwin seldom got on with anybody. He even felt at ease sitting beside him on the hard attic floor, nearly touching. Perhaps Charles was simply his universe-appointed fastest friend; the one person in creation who could truly understand him.

Or maybe it was a cosmic fluke, a quirk of biology. Maybe it could have been absolutely anybody in the world.

Yes, that was probably it. Nothing deeper at play than that.

Still, it was a pity Charles would be dead before the night was out. Soulmate or not.

(Definitely not.)

"Right..." Charles mumbled. Followed by a frown. "Wait, what?"

"Hm?"

"What d'you mean 'when you were alive'?"

Edwin looked at him. Charles still seemed rather small, rather sorry. A chilly little lump, all curled in on himself, even now they were side by side and of a height with one another. He looked cold, sallow. Not even the warm hues of the light Edwin had tentatively designated yellow could hide it, cheerful though it may be.

"You ought to move around a bit," said Edwin, standing smoothly. "You must keep your circulation going."

It would do no good, of course. But who knew? Charles might be hardier than Edwin gave him credit for.

"Edwin," said Charles, all seriousness. "What d'you mean when you were alive?"

Edwin's brow twitched. He held out his hand. "Get up, and I shall tell you."

Charles took his hand — and startled. "Fuck — you're colder than me, mate!"

"And for good reason. Come, now. Two or three quick laps of the room. I'll hold the lantern."

"Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead."

~ Wilfred Owen

Edwin had heard some truly hideous sounds in his time. Crunching bones, squelching organs, agonised screams. And yet somehow, the wheeze of Charles hacking up water from pulverised lungs was among the worst to date.

"Are you alright?" Edwin asked, hands clasped upon the table — lest he risk something overfamiliar like a pat on the back.

"I'm fine," Charles deflected, voice hoarse and unconvincing. "Just answer my question.

Charles was looking worse by the minute. The warm tones of his skin that Edwin had grown so fascinated by were receding under sallow grey. A new colour was blooming, in and around his eyes; in the puffy lids underneath, in the spiderwebbing veins across the whites.

This colour was not nearly so puzzling — the veins were a dead giveaway. Edwin had read more than enough crime literature to be able to identify the colour of blood.

So, this was the famous red. A bold colour, possibly quite charming in the right context; which this most assuredly was not. Edwin was no physician, but he'd read a number of medical textbooks. Charles bore all the hallmarks of a man bedevilled with internal bleeding. It was not a matter of whether he would die, but of what would kill him first; the cold, or the injuries.

He tore his gaze away. Anger, bitter and harsh, had him by the throat, had his fists clenching together until his gloves creaked. Who were those wretched boys, to lay hands upon Charles? To break him so? This boy who, insofar as Edwin could tell, hadn't a bad bone in his body? Whatever Charles was to him, soulmate or not (definitely, definitely not), he was his. He was supposed to be his, and soon he would be dead, and Edwin understood, now. Understood how people found themselves mired in Hell's fifth circle, swamped in wrath and rage. For no reason, no reason at all, those boys had taken Charles’ life without a care. Taken his life, and the colour from Edwin's eyes, all in one fell swoop. Soon both would be gone; and if Edwin ever found the hooligans responsible they'd have a formidable haunting on their hands.

"Nineteen thirteen, to..." he counted one, two, three, slowly. Collecting himself. "Nineteen sixteen."

"Bullshit." Charles cocked his head, a small smile of disbelief upon his lips. It was a charming expression, in its impertinence. "When did you go to school here for reals?"

"Nineteen thirteen to nineteen sixteen," Edwin repeated, slower. "I am dead, Charles."

Charles laughed. Edwin raised his eyebrows — and pretended not to be fascinated by the flash of not-red in Charles' mouth, his tongue and gums. What was the word for a light red, again? He was sure he'd read it somewhere...

The laughter died, and Charles' eyes went wider still. "...Oh."

There was more of that not-red than Edwin had thought, actually. The shells of Charles' ears, where the dawning light from the window glowed through translucent skin. He'd never considered that a person's ears might appear a different colour to the rest of them. How many secret tricks of the light had he been oblivious to all these years? How many more had he yet to discover? How many would he never get the chance to see for himself?

Just how much more could possibly be stolen from him?

"I... I dunno if this is, um, bad to ask, or what, but..." Charles swallowed. "How'd you die, mate?"

His lips, too, were redder than the rest of him; although that was fading, rapidly. Cooling at the edges. Edwin suspected that wasn't supposed to be the case.

"As I said," Edwin replied, sadly. "We had bullies, too."

"Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay."

~ Robert Frost

He had Charles move around again, though it was clear it would serve no purpose. He was delaying the inevitable. Charles was all but shutting down already; the occasional boost to his circulatory system was hardly going to bring him back from Death's door.

But perhaps Charles would beat the odds. Why not? He seemed a resilient fellow. Perhaps he would, indeed, outlast the night, see another day. Perhaps help would arrive. Perhaps Edwin could give him the push he needed to survive this if he only persisted.

Besides, he couldn't let Charles seize up and expire just yet. Charles had questions and damn it all, Edwin would answer them!

"Actually, you can move around any space however you like," Edwin explained. "It is not that you cannot touch things, you just cannot feel them."

A blessing in disguise, on occasion. Though Edwin had done his utmost to fill up this nook by the window with whatever musty blankets and futons he could salvage, he doubted the floor was comfortable. He himself sat with his knees tucked up to his chest, bracing for discomfort he couldn't feel. It was far from ideal. But he supposed that a hard floor was the least of Charles' problems.

Charles was rapidly declining. That cool tinge upon his lips was growing more prominent, his coughs harsher and more visceral-sounding. But here, at least, he seemed as snug as Edwin could make him. Swaddled like a babe, tucked up against the cluttered old shelves. Perhaps this was warm enough to get him through. It certainly seemed warm, with the yellow light burning merrily on.

It glowed not only off Charles' skin and his eyes, but a myriad small reflective surfaces strewn about the forgotten nook. Edwin was particularly taken with the shimmer of it off what appeared to be a dented instrument — possibly a tuba? — near Charles' head. Metals had always looked very similar to one another, in Edwin's grayscale vision. Now he could see the metal of the horn was a somewhat deeper shade than that of, say, the earring Charles wore. Finally, he could see first-hand the differences between the precious and non-precious metals. Alas, he had few of them to choose from, and little way of knowing which was which. He supposed it safe to assume that the instrument was brass, hence its orchestral designation.

But the metal Charles was wearing was his favourite so far. It had a little of the yellow about it, but richer, more lustrous. Edwin found himself quite transfixed by the way it fluttered and flickered in the light.

He was familiar with the saying all that glitters is not gold, of course. But for want of further evidence, gold seemed as good a guess as any.

"It's stupid, but... I think I'd miss kissing," said Charles. He looked right at Edwin, earring and eyes twinkling with the motion. He did have... handsome eyes. Edwin simply must figure out what colour they were. Of a similar hue but different tone to his hair, to the old wooden shelves at his back. "Do you miss kissing?"

"Mmm-mmmm," Edwin mumbled, with a small shake of his head. "No. Not as such."

How many people had Charles kissed, he wondered? Surely not an abundance, they were of a similar age. Had he kissed someone this month, this week? Today? Before his lips grew cold and chapped, when they were... oh, what was that word for a lighter red? Pink, yes, that was it.

Then again, perhaps he went about with painted lips in every day life. He already wore some sort of cosmetic on his eyes, after all, so maybe it wasn't a stretch for a modern young man. Imagine. A boy, staining the lips of his paramours with lipstick when he kissed them...

Goodness. The world really had moved on.

Edwin cleared his throat. "No," he repeated, firmly. "No, I don't miss kissing."

He supposed it was fine that Charles liked it, though. And maybe he'd get the chance to do it again. He just had to hold on a little longer, outlive the dawn chorus, until the teachers noticed his absence and sent people searching. Then he could keep on living, and kissing and whatever else he wished to do and Edwin...

Well, Charles probably wouldn't have much use for a ghost friend. But at least Edwin could keep the colours. Just a little while longer.

Charles chuckled. It was a bit of a sadder sound than the last time Edwin heard it. "Must've had some shit kisses in your life, mate."

Edwin smiled, tightly. "Something of that ilk."

"Shame we weren't mates," said Charles. "I'd've..."

"You'd have... what?"

A smattering of colour returned to Charles' face, then. It might've been a trick of the light, but Edwin could've sworn his cheeks warmed. "I'd've... well, I'd've found you someone to snog, wouldn't I?" he laughed, drawing his blanket closer around his chin. "Got some fit mates from my old school. And the birds proper fancy the brainy lads."

Edwin frowned. "The... birds?"

"Y'know. Lasses. Girls."

"Oh." For whatever reason, Edwin felt... disappointed. And not just at the apparently abysmal state of modern slang. "Yes. Girls."

He cocked his head, watching Charles carefully. He was a very good looking boy. And he wasn't Edwin's soulmate, couldn't be, but...

Edwin cleared his throat. "Charles?"

"Yeah?"

"Do I look..." He wavered. "...Unusual, at all? To you?"

Charles blinked. "Um. Well. Outfit's a bit retro." His eyes widened slightly, a dash of mortification. "Not being rude! I like it! It's... it's cool."

Edwin rolled his eyes. "I don't mean my outfit, I mean... have you noticed anything different about this room since I walked in?" he pressed.

"Well, yeah."

Edwin inhaled. "You have?"

"Yeah."

He leaned in closer. "What have you noticed exactly?"

Charles smiled weakly. "Well. It... feels a lot less lonely. With you here. Warmer, too." He chuckled. "Daft as that sounds. With you being dead, and all."

Edwin's fingers flexed on his knees — all he could do to stop himself hugging them, wretchedly, to his heart. "Yes," he agreed, dully. "Daft, indeed..."

"Green makes me think of silence, or maybe it’s loneliness. I get the feeling of a terribly distant star."

~ Kobo Abe

Edwin had only ever known one person ‘fortunate’ enough to meet her soulmate.

Aunt Florence had always been a bit of an odd duck. Flighty and fickle, a perpetual embarrassment to her brother — Edwin's father — whose job it had been to lend financial support to her spinster lifestyle. As she alleged it, she'd found her soulmate in the late eighteen seventies. For reasons undisclosed (to Edwin, at least) they had never married. Edwin had never had the pleasure of meeting her mysterious match.

She had always seemed very fascinated with the world around her, Aunt Florence. A trait she shared with Edwin; though while his interest lay in facts, hers lay in aesthetics. He’d seen her dedicate hours to the study of a singular rose petal in her garden. Edwin was told she could do quite beautiful things with oil paints, for those with eyes to see. They were passable, too, in black and white, but lacking dimension.

Once, when Edwin was about nine or so, Aunt Florence had taken his chin between her willowy fingers.

"What lovely eyes you have, my boy," she'd said, in a smoker's croak. Uncouth for a woman to smoke, particularly one of her social standing, but she'd never much cared what others thought of her. Her tobacco-stained nail had nipped his chin as she held him close. "Your mother's eyes. Sea green... You'll find yourself someone who can appreciate them, won't you?"

Edwin, of course, had had no idea what green was, and little desire to find out. Not if finding a so-called soulmate was the prerequisite condition. He was of an age where the fixation that grown-ups seemed to have on kissing one another was both vexing and perplexing to him. A phase of his life that, to be frank, he'd never entirely left behind. He'd extricated himself from Aunt Florence's talons as politely as possible, and given her a wide berth for the rest of her visit.

The next time he'd seen her, she had taken one look at his eyes, and burst into tears.

They all ended the same way, these soulmate stories. It was a law of nature. Death was not neat, or particularly fair. No matter how blissfully happy the pair, someone always had to leave first; and when they did, the colour left with them.

Some, at least, got time to enjoy it all. Before their love — and their colour — died away. A few decades, or years. Months, even.

Some, like Edwin, got far less. Hours, if that.

And some, like Charles Rowland, got no time at all.

"They're out of the dark's ragbag, these two

Moles dead in the pebbled rut,

Shapeless as flung gloves, a few feet apart —

Blue suede a dog or fox has chewed.

One, by himself, seemed pitiable enough,

Little victim unearthed by some large creature

From his orbit under the elm root.

The second carcass makes a duel of the affair:

Blind twins bitten by bad nature."

~ Sylvia Plath

"Shut up, mate. That is brills."

Edwin was inclined to agree. Especially now he could appreciate the full effect. He'd been aware, of course, that his form seemed to partially dissolve into a mirage when he passed through solid surfaces. He'd been unaware that the mirage seemed to possess a certain hue. Not unlike the hue beginning to bleed through the filthy window.

The pre-dawn light was different to the majority of the colours Edwin had identified so far. It was colder. Greyer. Pale and stark against the opaque black silhouette of the distant treeline (interesting, how the trees still seemed black in this light. He wondered if he'd get a chance to see this green he'd heard so much about before the night was over.) If Charles' face was warmed by the yellow lamplight, it was cooled at the edges by the seeping tones through the glass.

This, like the red and the blood, came with an easy reference point. Everybody knew that the sky was supposed to be blue.

Seemed Edwin finally had a word for the sickly tint of Charles' lips.

"Why don't you fall through the floor?" Charles asked, puzzled.

"There are many, many, so-called ghost rules," said Edwin, sagely. He had, after all, spent several weeks conducting his own personal study and compiling the rules himself. "I shan't waste your time listing them."

"Well, I only asked about the floor, didn't I?" said Charles, a teasing lilt to his lip. Honestly, the cheek of the man.

"Because I choose not to fall through the floor," Edwin replied, in utterly falsified exasperation. "Happy?"

Charles had a certain way of smiling; one that spread up from his grinning mouth and into his eyes. Despite the cold, miserable state of the rest of him they fairly shone with warmth, a merry humour. A knowing gleam that said 'look at us, in on the joke'.

Edwin had never been in on the joke, before.

Charles chuckled; and Edwin did likewise, helpless to the draw of it. The magnetic sound. It had his lips lifting of their own volition — even as his heart sank further and further into the floor.

The blue devils, that's what his father had called it. On those rare occasions when he acknowledged Mother's low mood, or found Edwin weeping silently upon his bed. "You've just got the blue devils, my boy. Chin up, now, and soldier on. You've better things to do than mope."

He could feel them, now, those blue devils upon his shoulder. Cold, heavy, and the colour of Charles' bloodless lips. Weighing Edwin down like stones in his pockets. He hadn't felt hot or cold in decades, but now he felt as Charles must have done with the chill lake pressing down upon him, filling his lungs. And unlike Charles, he wasn't sure he possessed the tenacity to break the surface before the bubbles stopped.

He'd fought his way from the pits of Hell itself, and yet this climb seemed more insurmountable by far. He was no longer fighting his way from the dark to the light. There was no light above the surface of this icy water, no light at all. The light was here, the entire spectrum of it; above was only grey, grey, grey, as far as the eye could see.

"Oi," said Charles. He looked so very tired; but still inquisitive to a fault. "What other cool stuff can you do, then?"

Edwin huffed. "I can travel through mirrors, if you must know."

Charles' blue lips parted, breath escaping on a wonderstruck wheeze. "Wicked."

He ought to be more careful with his breaths. He couldn't have had all that many left to draw.

"We love the sight of the brown and ruddy earth; it is the color of life, while a snow-covered plain is the face of death."

~ John Burroughs

Charles Rowland passed away in the small hours of the morning. Edwin didn't even need to look up from the page; he just watched the pinkish tint bleed from his own ghostly fingertips, and made a deduction.

Even before his passing, Edwin hadn't looked directly at Charles in some time. He hadn't been able to bring himself to. The colour in his ailing new friend had diminished all but completely, his skin a sallow patina, his lips a cracked grey slate.

Edwin had only come to know colour on this night, and already he could feel its absence like a hole in his heart. He understood, now, why Aunt Florence had dragged herself so mournfully through her twilight years. Going through the motions of existing. Colour, for Aunt Florence, had been life; without it, there was simply no point living.

Somehow, Edwin found his voice, and he read on. Because Edwin was no Aunt Florence, arty and flighty and prone to outpourings of passion. Edwin was his father's son; he soldiered on. No matter what.

But the ache in his chest persisted, despite his best efforts to quash it. There had been so much yet to see. He'd never witnessed the colour purple — an expensive hue of which he'd heard a great many appreciative things. He'd never seen a flower, any flower, in full bloom, or watched one of those famous sunsets.

In the end, he never even got to see what his aunt meant about his eyes. But he had no reflection anymore, so. Perhaps that one was always a lost cause.

On the topic of lost causes; there was someone else in this room with him, yet. Someone who'd lost far more than a fleeting glimpse of creation in technicolour.

""— I cease to believe,"" Edwin finished reading with a soft, forced chuckle. To no response. He looked up to find Charles standing tall, gaze turned to the window. It was the first time all night he'd been without his blanket; and the first time he'd borne not the slightest shiver.

Well. At least he would never be cold again.

"Not enjoying this one?" Edwin prompted, gently. "Carrados the blind detective was just becoming quite popular in my day."

When Charles turned around, of course Edwin already knew what he would find. Knew what his own eyes would fall upon when they followed Charles’ gaze.

But knowing did not prepare him for the reality. The cold, desaturated tableau of Charles Rowland's demise, illuminated like a crime scene in the stark white light of the lantern. How a person so vital, so vibrant as Charles should be without blood and colour defied all reason. And yet there he lay; bereft of hue, and of life.

Edwin swallowed, and closed the book gently upon Max Carrados. "When you could see me, I knew it was too late."

Charles was silent. For the first time all night. Silent as the grave.

"But I simply..." Edwin hesitated. "I did not want to scare you."

In the corner of Edwin's eye, the lantern guttered and died. Good. It didn't seem right; all that light upon Charles, and not a drop of warmth in it.

"Well. Glad you didn't say anything." Charles' voice was stronger, now. How different he sounded, without the rattle of lake water in his lungs.

Charles looked at his hands. As did Edwin. How strange they appeared, in the bleak grey of Edwin's impoverished eyes. How unsettlingly close to the pallor his skin had taken on in his death throes. And yet he wasn't pallid, not in the slightest. Standing tall, unchained from his ailing flesh, he was more wholly and healthily Charles than Edwin had yet seen him.

"Doesn't feel like I imagined. Being dead," said Charles, thoughtful. "Feels okay, doesn't it?"

In truth, there was nothing remotely 'okay' about this situation. Edwin felt... robbed. He felt robbed. Because he would never know the colour of Charles' skin when it wasn't frozen grey, or beaten black and blue. He'd never see this Charles, standing tall in the dawning sunlight, the way he was designed to be seen. The way he was chosen, by God or fate or an impossible quirk of biology to be seen, by Edwin. Only by Edwin. For he was Edwin's, no more could he deny it.

And Charles would never see Edwin. Not the way Edwin saw him. Because by the time they met, it was already too late. Because in a wretched twist of fate, Charles’ soulmate — his unfortunate, unorthodox soulmate — was dead in the ground before Charles was even born.

And Edwin had thought Hell to be cruel and unusual punishment.

"I sincerely wish we could have been friends for longer," said Edwin, dropping the magazine and standing from his seat on the old trunk. "But Death will come for you, now. You should go with her when she arrives."

He turned, and began his brisk march to the door. What's done is done; and Charles was, unmistakably, done. Done in and done for, done in just about every sense.

So Charles would be off, now. He'd be off, and Edwin would just have to carry him, too. In his head, with his facts and his torments and a thousand tiny heartbreaks. What was another one, in the grand scheme of things? What else was there to do in this fugitive afterlife but keep his chin up, and soldier on?

"Well I'm not ready, am I?” Charles called out. “I don't wanna go somewhere else, yet."

Edwin faltered. Turned. Charles was watching him.

"What if I stay here for a bit with you, instead?" said Charles, preposterously.

"Then you will always be running from her," was Edwin's quick, logical response. But Charles was still watching him with those... those damnably appealing eyes, and he felt the need to defend his case. "Also, I'm not good with other people. And I only just came back to this school after escaping Hell, so. I'm out of practice, to be perfectly frank. So. When the light comes. You stay, and I go."

He smiled, tightly, and turned once more. There. He'd avoided mentioning Hell all night, but it was done, now. No boy with a lick of sense would —

"Well, I'm aces with other people."

… He simply could not be serious.

"Pretty chuffed you got out of Hell, mate," Charles continued, maddeningly blasé. "That sounds hard. Nice job."

Edwin turned on him, incredulous. "That is not how you make decisions," he snapped, taking a challenging step towards Charles. "Just based on whatever you happen to be feeling in the moment!"

"It's how I lived my life."

Charles turned his head, looked down at his own body. Edwin couldn't bring himself to do likewise.

"Doesn't seem all that different now."

Charles looked at Edwin, unflinching. And what a different creature he was, free of cold and pain. Lithe but lax, eyes slightly narrowed in almost catlike contemplation of Edwin. He stood before a hellbound soul, near naked and freshly dead, and yet the easygoing slope of his narrow shoulders bore no strain.

He shrugged, nonchalant. White light glimmered from his dangling earring. "Looks like you're stuck with me.”

For a moment it was nigh on impossible to believe he hadn't seen it, too. Hadn't seen the spectrum unfold when Edwin said his name. Because how else could someone look at anyone, let alone Edwin, with such certainty? As if he'd never been more sure of anything or anyone in his tragically short life.

Breathtaking was not a word Edwin liked to use lightly. In fact, he preferred not to use it at all. Who had ever seen something so rare, so staggeringly beautiful they'd lost their breath? It was the sort of word Aunt Florence would have used; flowery and hyperbolic.

It seemed Edwin owed her yet another apology.

Light flared in the corner. Their eyes leapt to it. It was of no colour that Edwin could see and yet he could feel it, deep in his soul, he knew its shape and colour; blue. A kinder, softer blue than that of bloodless lips and dreary skies. The wild blue yonder that he was barred from forevermore; the one that awaited Charles Rowland with open arms.

Charles looked at Edwin.

Edwin looked at Charles.

Charles smiled, soul glowing lantern-bright in those dark, confident eyes. He didn't move, not towards the light or away from it, but he held out his hand. Planted like a tree, unbending, unbowed. His roots sunk deep into the loamy earth of life; his branches beckoning Edwin into their boughs.

Oh, thought Edwin, when he understood — didn't see, simply understood — the colour that had been gazing back at him all along. That's the word I was looking for.

Thirty years passed, fading into memory, and with them faded the sting. It was hard to mourn the loss of colour when one could scarcely remember what it looked like in the first place. Those fleeting hours blended and blurred amidst the grey years, lost to time; a single hand-tinted frame in a hundred miles of monochrome celluloid.

Though he tried to remember, Edwin struggled to visualise the yellow light that had bathed their faces; the gold that glinted at the cut of Charles' jaw. Pink lips, red veins, the blue stain of death. Such things were impossible to note down in a world of black ink and white pages, and his aide-mémoires soon failed him. The colours fluttered away into the past, scattered to the winds of memory like his mother's smile, his father's voice, Aunt Florence's smoky laughter and the roses she painted on the guest room walls.

But though he could not recall the exact shade of Charles' eyes, nor compare them to any other — not even his own — Edwin knew something about them. Just as he knew Death's light shone heavenly blue. And for once in Edwin's long and tormented afterlife, he felt truly fortunate. Because he'd been allowed to experience only a fraction of what the visible spectrum had to offer; colours he could count on less than two hands.

And yet somehow, by some stroke of luck, he'd seen the best one nonetheless.

"At breakfast that morning I had been struck by the lively dissonance of its colours. But that was no longer the point. I was not looking now at an unusual flower arrangement. I was seeing what Adam had seen on the morning of his creation - the miracle, moment by moment, of naked existence."

~ Aldous Huxley

Thank you for coming on this journey with me, my darlings 💛 Love to hear your thoughts! Reminder to check out Olly's amazing gifs! This one took a little while to come together, bc in my first draft Edwin's feelings/progression were a bit all over the place. But I realised that all the sections of the attic scene (not including the very first one/my inserted flashback about Aunt Florence) could track along the five stages of grief quite nicely and that gave me a good framework to loosely follow, starting in his denial of the implications and ending in devastated acceptance of what he's lost. As to why he didn't like, *tell* Charles, well, what would you do? Be honest? If you were a dead Edwardian ghost boy and you found out your actual soulmate was not only another boy, but a doomed one? One who isn't even seeing what you're seeing. Maybe he thought Charles wouldn't believe him, or would take it badly. Maybe he thought telling him would sway him unfairly into staying when Edwin believed he should go. I think he will tell him, one day. And Charles is gonna be PISSED that he kept it from him so long xD For the quotes, I tried to stick to things Edwin could possibly have read, so pre-1989 things, as I like the idea of him using literature as a framework for understanding what he's seeing. It was really interesting writing about colour from the perspective of someone with no reference for it! Some of the quotes might have ended up anachronistic by a couple of years, tbh people are *shit* at sourcing their quotes and while I could source authors easy enough it was hard sometimes to isolate what specific book/anthology the piece came from, or what year it was published. If I'd have had more time I would have done more digging! Anyway, that's about all I got right now. I dunno when I'll be back, probably (hopefully) in a few weeks with the next chapter of Lonely Bones. In the meantime please, feel free to continue chatting with me in the comments, on my tumblr, come be a pal, I've had the time of my life with y'all this week and I'm not ready to get off this train just yet! Until next time! 💛

#painlandweek #painland week #payneland #dead boy detectives #dbda #my fanfic #PHEW #WE MADE IT GUYS #i think there's some things about this one i might have tweaked/restructured given a little more time #a few things i would have gone into more as well #idk if it's a thorough an exploration of the concept as I'd planned #but all in all not half bad!#and working with olly has been an honour and a delight!!#thank you so much everyone who's been cheering me on this week 💛💛💛#and now i have time to finally go and read all the great stuff you've been writing!!!

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buttercupsandboys · 2 years ago

Text

Sunshine & Rainbows — an Alfie Solomons x original character story — Chapter 7

18+ NSFW - minors don’t interact 🙅🏻‍♀️

MASTERLIST | READ ON AO3

CHAPTER 7: gossip over salvation

Word count: 3148

TW: none really

Alfie is away and Livy crosses paths with Arthur Shelby … what could go wrong?

A/N: Sorry, this chapter doesn’t have much Alfie (which I hate because it’s SO much harder for me to write Livy without him) but I think it’s necessary to move the plot along. And I have big plans for the next few chapters, eek! So excited 😁

I’ve decided Christina Hendricks would make an excellent Livy, don’t you think? With a bit of Alexis Rose from Schitt's Creek thrown in.

Livy can’t possibly take any more of this.

She shifts her weight from side to side, trying to relive the shooting pain in her lower back. Her legs are going numb from sitting on the hard wooden chair, and she has a throbbing headache that makes it hard to focus.

It’s been the longest four hours of her life, and there’s only one person who can save her from this nightmare…

��Ollie!!”

The tall lanky man slowly opens the door, hesitation written all over his face.

“Yes, Miss Olivia?”

“Ollie, how many times have I told you? Call me Livy, darling!” She pouts and brings a hand to her chest, doing her best to look offended. “We are friends, aren’t we?”

“Um, yes … I suppose so,” Ollie replies nervously.

“Brilliant!” Livy claps her hands in delight and flashes a bright smile. “And as my friend, I’m hoping you could help me with something?”

Her elbows drop to the desk and she narrows her eyes as she leans forward. Ollie can’t help but notice the similarities between the young woman and his employer, and he backs away slowly, taking a small step towards the door.

“Well, I’ve got a lot on, but uh—”

“Oh, you’re such a sweetheart, Ollie! Thank you. I promised Alfie that I’d look over his books while he’s away, but I just can’t sit at this desk a minute longer.”

Livy continues to chat away as she stands and crosses the room, placing a small hand on Ollie’s shoulder. She gently guides (pushes) him towards the recently vacated chair.

“You know I’m a dancer, don’t you, darling? I get very stiff if I sit for too long. And Alfie always speaks so highly of your work!”

From the baffled expression on Ollie’s face, she accepts that she may have overplayed her hand with that last bit, but it’s too late to

stop now.

She practically shoves him towards the desk and the stack of ledgers. “He told me that you’re, uh, a wizard with numbers! And he wouldn’t know what to do without you. In fact, he’s never known someone—“

Ollie interrupts her with a gentle hand on her wrist.

“Livy, if you need a break, you can just say so.”

She blushes softly at being caught out and gives him a genuine smile. “You really are my hero. Thank you, Ollie,” she answers softly.

“Just don’t leave the bakery without one of the lads! Alfie’s orders, Livy.”

“Of course, darling!” She assures him, throwing a wink over her shoulder before grabbing her new coat and making a quick escape.

— • — • —

The door to the small courtyard swings open, and Livy steps out, tilting her head to worship the sun peeking from behind the clouds. She closes her eyes and enjoys the warmth on her skin before releasing a long, slow breath.

She‘s feeling unsettled today, and it bothers her because there’s no obvious reason for it—well, except for the Italians who want to kill her. But she’s not too worried about them. They’re not the first people to want her dead, and besides, she trusts Alfie.

Yes, they haven’t known each other for very long. And yes, he does seem like he’d play anyone against everyone to get what he wants. She was there during the meeting with Mr Shelby, and she’s not quite as naive as she sometimes allows people to think. But she doesn’t doubt that he’ll honour his promise to her father and, by extension, to her. She can’t explain it with words, but her intuition has always been strong, and she doesn’t waste time doubting herself.

So no, she’s not worried about the Italians, but she is restless. Spending the morning with her nose in the books certainly didn’t help, but at least it’s something to distract her while Alfie’s not around.

He’d come to her today at dawn, pulling open the curtains before finding the edge of the bed and telling her that he’d be away for a couple of days.

Business, love. Up north. Won’t be gone long.

She’d been half asleep and easily distracted, too busy imagining what was under his crumpled shirt to pay attention to what he was saying. She vaguely heard something about “taking up her offer to help” and before she fully realised what was happening, she’d agreed to look over his books.

And it’s fine because she really is good with numbers. Plus, she’d rather spend a day at the bakery than home alone. But god, it’s bloody boring.

She sighs as she walks between the long wooden tables where the men take their breaks, trailing her hand along the rough wooden surfaces. There’s something else bothering her, but she just can’t quite put her finger on it, so she takes a deep breath and decides to drop it for now.

Eyes on the horizon, she reminds herself as she settles on a bench at the far side of the courtyard. She pulls off her coat—the afternoon sun is surprisingly strong—and folds it into a pillow for her head. Then she stretches out, breathing deeply before exhaling and letting her worries float away with the clouds.

She must have dozed off for a bit because she’s suddenly startled by unfamiliar voices. Her eyes land on two strapping lads sitting at a table nearby, Blinders from the looks of them. She realises they haven’t noticed her because of her position on the bench and is about to say hello when suddenly her ears perk up.

“It good coin, mate,” declares a stout man with rosy cheeks. “If you’re looking for extra work, Arthur needs men on the door at that posh place.”

“What’s it? The Eden Club?” asks the second man, who is much smaller but sports the same familiar cap. “Fuck, I’ve heard the women are wild there. Bet Arthur’s having a right ol’ time, eh?”

“You should see for yourself,” his friend replies as he stands and gathers his things, his break finished. ��The Blinders run the place now, mate.”

The other man nods, and then they both exit the courtyard, leaving Livy to process what she just heard. The Eden Club is under Blinder control now? She sits up and smiles, her mood considerably improved. Maybe she should go and say hello to this Arthur fellow …

She knows she’s not *supposed* to leave the bakery, but surely a little trip can’t hurt? So she slips out the gate and goes looking for a carriage.

— • — • —

“Peter! Hello, darling!”

The handsome man looks up from behind the bar, his surprised expression quickly replaced by delight when he recognises Livy from across the room.

“Livy! Where’ve you been, love?” He calls out as he sets down the glass he’s been polishing, casually tossing a towel over his shoulder. “It’s been a while, poppet. You know everyone’s been asking ‘bout you.”

She smiles and sets her bag down, sitting at the bar and nodding gratefully when Peter lifts a glass in silent question.

“Always the gentleman,” she teases as she accepts the drink, taking a sip and giggling when the bubbles tickle her nose. “It’s a long story, I’m afraid. Things have been… complicated.”

“It always is with you, ain’t it?” He grins as he crosses his arms and leans against the bar.

“Oh, Peter …” She scolds as she smacks him playfully. “The drama finds me, darling. I don’t go looking for it.”

“Of course, love. Of course.” He reaches for her hand, bringing it to his lips and placing a chaste kiss in apology. “So what brings you here today? The girls should be in soon if you want to say hello.”

“Oh, my babies! Yes, I’ll be sure to pop round soon,” she replies, smiling fondly. “But first, tell me all about the new management? I hear ‘Arthur’ is the man at the top now?”

“Aye, Arthur Shelby,” confirms Peter. “From Birmingham, one of the Peaky boys. He’s a wild one and he’ll love you, that’s for damn sure. You want to meet him?”

“Why not?” Livy replies innocently.

Peter laughs. “Alright, love. Enjoy your drink and I’ll hunt him down for ya. He’s around here somewhere.”

Livy nods and takes another sip of her champagne before turning in her seat to admire the opulent club. She wonders if Arthur will be much like the other Mr Shelby, who she hasn’t quite taken to. Thomas is too cold—admittedly beautiful but lifeless, like a statue. Johnny insists that he’s a good man, just hardened by the war, but she’s not convinced.

Either way, she knows that if the Blinders run the Eden Club then the Italians will keep away … which surely means that it’s safe for her to come back?

And oh how she wants to.

She adores Alfie and when he returns, she wants to learn everything there is to know about him. Fate or just old-fashioned luck has brought them together, and she’s not going to turn her nose at good fortune—especially not when it comes in such a handsome, well-endowed package.

But that doesn’t mean she wants to sit around the bakery all day, twiddling her thumbs like a bored housewife. She’s not dead yet, but you never know when the reaper will come knocking. Every day above ground is a day worth celebrating, and where better than the most fabulous club in London?

“Well fuck me, Peter. Where’d you find this angel?”

“That’s Livy, Mr Shelby. Our best girl until a few weeks ago, a right sweetheart she is.”

“Oh, Peter. You’re getting soft in your old age,” Livy scolds with a smile as she slips off her stool and stands to greet the tall man. He bears little resemblance to the other Mr Shelby, with a mischievous smile hiding under his thick moustache and sparkling eyes that put her immediately at ease.

“Mr Shelby pleased to meet you,” she greets warmly as she offers her hand.

“The pleasure’s all mine, love,” replies Arthur as he catches her hand, bringing it to his lips and making her laugh when his moustache tickles her soft skin. He grins at her response. “But please call me Arthur.”

“Alright then. So tell me, Arthur, what’s your relation to Mr Thomas Shelby?”

“Have you met Tommy, lass?” Arthur raises an eyebrow in surprise.

“We’ve got … friends in common.” She’s not sure about Alfie’s relationship with the Shelbys, so she decides to leave his name out for now. “My father knew the Lees, and Johnny Dogs is a friend.”

“Imagine that, eh? The Lees? So you know Esme then?”

“Oh yes!” Livy lights up when she thinks of her friend. “We’ve fallen out of touch, but we were close once.”

“Well, you should come and visit us, love! She married me brother, John. Tommy is my other brother,” Arthur confides with a proud smile. “Small fuckin’ world, eh?”

“It certainly is, darling.” She pats Arthur on the shoulder as they both take a seat at the bar. “But you know, I wanted to chat with you about the club, Arthur.”

“The club, eh? You looking for work, love?”

“Yes, Arthur. I’d like to come back, but … “ She trails off, not quite sure how to phrase her request without mentioning the Italians. “I’m very popular, you see. I need to make sure the lads are under control when I’m here. Do you understand what I’m asking?”

“Protection?” Arthur cocks an eyebrow and waits for confirmation.

“Yes, exactly!” Livy replies, feeling relieved.

“Well, look love. If you work in my club, you don’t have to worry ‘bout nothing—by orders of the Peaky fuckin’ Blinders!” Arthur slams his hand on the bar for emphasis, and Livy giggles, tossing back the rest of her drink.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then, boss.”

She hops from her seat, giving a mock curtsy and blowing a kiss, before making for the door, her heels echoing like gunshots against the empty dance floor.

— • — • —

Livy can barely hear herself think above the symphony of laughter and poorly contained whispers, and that’s exactly how she likes it.

She looks in the mirror and reapplies her cherry red lipstick, smiling warmly at the chaos behind her; fellow dancers, in various states of undress, primping and gossiping in front of brightly lit vanities. The room smells like sweet perfume and cheap champagne, and it feels safe, like a cocoon where women go to transform into butterflies.

“We missed you so much,” declares Emma, one of the younger girls, as she embraces Livy from behind. “It wasn’t the same without you looking out for us.”

“And getting the drinks!” Calls out Annie from across the room, resulting in a chorus of laughter.

“Like you ladies can’t find your way to the bar blindfolded,” Livy retorts loudly, giving Emma a tight squeeze before turning to face the others.

“So … where have you been?” Eva asks curiously as she brushes her long blonde hair. Suddenly, she stops and her eyes go wide. “Oh Livy, is it a man? It is, isn’t it? Tell us, pleeease!”

Her voice rises in excitement and the room comes alive; a hymn of high-pitched squeals and low whistles from women who pray for gossip over salvation. But Livy only smirks and adjusts her stockings, her lips sealed as she enjoys the attention. And, of course, the other women know just how to give it; they all play their parts like actors on a stage.

“C’mon, love. We all know you can’t keep anything to yourself,” Annie teases as she leans back in her chair, gracefully lighting a slim cigarette before placing her heels on the vanity, ignoring the tiny bottles that go flying as she crosses her dainty ankles. “Have some pity on the rest of us, slaving away each night while you’ve been galavanting around with Prince Charming.”

“Aye, he would be too,” moans Sarah, a slim redhead from up north. “Livy always finds the best lads.”

“The best?” Livy huffs indignantly. “Need I remind you of Richard, that bastard—“

“With the big cock?” Interrupts Annie, and the room erupts into laughter yet again.

Livy snorts and words slip out of her mouth before she can stop them. “Yes, well … it now seems quite small in comparison…”

Poor Emma is blushing like a virgin but the rest of the girls go wild at the confession. Eva stands up and crosses the room, holding her brush threateningly. “Livy, if you don’t give us more details …”

“You’ll what?” With a flip of her wrist, the small dagger Livy keeps between her breasts is poised in her soft hands.

“Oh fuck off, Livy.” Eva puts one hand on her hip and swats at her with the other, still holding the brush like a weapon. Livy dissolves into laughter and puts the blade away before grabbing the blonde’s hand and pulling her down on her lap.

“Don’t pout, Eva.” She chides playfully, pressing a kiss on her friend’s cheek before addressing the room. “Well, I’m sure you all remember Alfie—“

“Noooo—the Captain from the letters!!”

“That’s him, Annie.”

“Argh, I knew it!” Gasps Eva excitedly. “Didn’t I tell you he’d have a big one? ‘Cause I knew he would. It’s a gift, I always know.”

“Jesus, Eva. We all know about your talent. You should give readings for the posh birds instead of dancing with us,” scoffs Sarah.

“Don’t be a jealous—“

Eva is interrupted by Emma, whose soft voice somehow cuts through the noise of the room. “But do you love him, Livy?”

The older girls exchange a knowing look before Livy gently replies, “Oh, darling! It’s a bit early for love, sweet pea.”

She intends to leave it at that but Emma bites her lip and looks on expectantly, and Livy can only sigh because the girl is young and still believes in fairy tales. But there are no white knights at the Eden Club.

She looks to the other women for help but doesn’t find it, so she pats Eva off her lap and stands, taking Emma’s hands in hers. “He’s a special man, love. But women like us …” She trails off, looking for the right words. “We don’t find love that easily.”

Annie snorts, “Because men are pigs, Emma. It’ll do you good to remember that.”

“Oi! Don’t listen to her, love,” chimes in Sarah. “Annie’s just old and bitter. You’ll find a good man one day.”

“Yeah, lots of good men here,” mumbles Annie. “You know what they think of us, look what happened to Ellie—“

“Alright, enough ladies. How about I get us another round?”

Livy cuts her off before the conversation takes a turn she’d rather avoid. She crosses the room but before she can open the door, they’re interrupted by a loud knock and a muffled voice.

“Everyone decent in there?”

Annie sighs and calls out reluctantly, “Yes, Arthur. Come on in.” Most of the women are, in fact, not dressed but who can be bothered to care?

The Blinder enters the room; his smile wide and pupils blown as his booming voice rings out in a thick Birmingham accent, “Hello, ladies!” He swings his arms wide as he surveys the room before reaching out for Livy.

“Welcome back, angel. How was your first night?” He asks, clapping a hand on her scantily clad shoulder.

“Wonderful, darling! But I was just about to head to the bar for another bottle—care to join me?” Livy puts a firm hand on Arthur’s arm and guides him out the door. He might be the boss, but the girls prefer to keep men out of the sanctum of their dressing room whenever possible.

“Sure thing, love.” He moves his hand to her lower back and guides her out the door, as Livy mouths “be right back” over her shoulder.

“Bring two bottles!” Annie shouts out as the door shuts and the pair step into the crowded club.

The last dance of the night is over and the girls are off the clock, but there are still plenty of people around as Arthur and Livy make their way to the bar. Peter spots them from across the room and has their drinks waiting—whiskey for him, champagne for her.

“Cheers, love.” Arthur lifts his glass to Livy.

“Cheers, darling!” Livy replies with a sunny smile, gently tapping her glass with his. She leans against the bar and sweeps her hand towards the heaving dance floor. “Busy tonight, isn’t it?”

“I think half of London turned out to see you, love.” Arthur drapes an arm across her shoulders and pulls her closer. His voice drops and she can smell the whiskey on his breath when he whispers, “Beautiful thing, you are.”

“Yeah, she is mate.”

A booming voice rings out from behind and Livy doesn’t need to turn to know who it belongs to.

“Alfie, darling! You’re back!”

A/N: Sorry again that this is mostly an OC chapter. I miss Alfie! But I have VERY big plans for the next 3 chapters (and I really hope I can live up to my expectations!). Smut, violence and angst to come! 🙌🏻 Also, remember this is an AU and there’s technically no bad blood between Alfie and Arthur yet … but that might be about to change.

#alfie solomons #peaky blinders alfie #Alfie x original character #alfie solomons fanfic #alfie solomons fanfiction #tom hardy #tom hardy fanfiction #tom hardy fic #peaky blinders #peaky blinders fandom #peaky blinders fanfic #livy x alfie

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