#tommy is a shark constantly looking for blood im sorry lmfao

[reddevilmcnt]

He wanted a simple answer to a simple question. Why hide the boy? Families didn’t bury their treasures unless they were afraid of what might come if someone dug them up.

The thought simmered as Tommy’s steps echoed on the cobblestones, his sharp profile cutting through the swirling mist. He wasn’t a man who ran from the truth; he couldn’t afford the luxury. That’s why he was the head of the Shelby clan. ...Polly's mind was as keen as a hunter's eye, but her instincts as matriarch made her cautious, too restrained for a world that demanded near-constant blood and risk. Arthur, as the eldest, had been in charge once, but ultimately he was more brute than strategist and his madness was a leash Tommy had learned to pull tight. John’s temper flared too hot and too fast, and Michael was still green, too preoccupied with legitimacy to see the bigger picture.

No, it was always going to be Tommy. He dealt in truths others feared to face, navigating the murky depths where most dared not tread. His hunger for more burned brighter than anyone could comprehend. ...Even so, he knew that his family was his greatest power. No matter how many times he prodded Arthur's internal rage to unleash a beast upon their enemies, no matter how often Polly and Ada condemned his cold-hearted choices, no matter the endless bickering of John and Esme or Michael’s faltering attempts to legitimize their empire---- everything came back to one undeniable core: love. He loved his family, even if the words didn’t come easily. There was no regret in the sacrifices he made or the blood he spilled for them.

And so, he wondered------ did the Wu family’s ties bind as tightly as his own? Was their loyalty forged in something unbreakable, or did they hide the lamb out of fear, not love? Perhaps they knew, deep down, that once exposed to the light, they would tear it apart without a second thought.

Protecting someone from yourself, now that was an intriguing concept.

But it wasn’t one Eric seemed capable of grasping, not now, not in this moment. Instead, Tommy’s name spilled from his lips, pulling his attention like a thread tugged tight. The next question Eric posed brought Tommy to an abrupt halt in the middle of the cobbled street, lean frame turning ever so slightly toward the boy (a subtle, yet true command for him to stop as well.)

Eric’s lashes caught the glow of moonlight, casting faint shadows over his cheek---- so long and unfairly delicate as they fluttered with an innocence that didn’t belong here, certainly not tonight. Tommy had already seen them blink too often in confused wonder, a gesture as distracting as it was disarming.

Most questions were nuisances he batted aside with ease, but this one lingered in the chill of the air. It made him pause, made him deliberate. For once, his silence wasn’t indifference; it was calculation. His gaze fell on the silk, and something stirred, a flicker of thought that spiraled into a dreamlike haze. Eric had an air about him, something untethered, something that whispered of Gypsy omens and half-formed visions. He seemed less real, more conjured, as though he had wandered out of a corner of Tommy’s fantasies that he rarely dared to explore.

The suit was an ill fit for him, too structured, too ordinary. But the silk? That made sense. It seemed to mold to him as though it were a natural extension of his form, as if it had been made for him alone. Tommy imagined him draped in it, standing in the garden behind the great sprawling manor he'd acquired, not out of need, but to make a statement----- a symbol of his power. The image was already too vivid... Eric surrounded by the same trees Tommy had once laid under when his bed seemed too plush, too empty. The scent of fresh blossoms mingling in the air and soft lighting falling all over him, illuminating his smooth skin and the gentle curve of his long lashes, making him appear as though he were born from the garden itself.

But it was a thought Tommy dismissed as quickly as it came, shoving it into the depths of a heart that no longer had use for such feelings. That was the fantasy of a man who’d existed before the war----- before the trenches had stolen softness from him and replaced it with steel. Whatever remained of that man lingered only in fragments, cracked and useless. He had no intention of sharing that part of himself, least of all with someone like Eric, a boy too naive to understand ambition or survival.

There was no place for fragility in Thomas Shelby's world, and Eric wasn't here for that, either.

"I wouldn’t," Tommy finally broke the silence, tones gravelly and smooth, like a slow, intoxicating drag of smoke that held your ear with quiet power. "That’s the problem, isn’t it? The hiding. It’s why you find yourself comfortable in the dark, among men like me." His words hung heavy, the warning implicit.

Then he resumed walking, his coat flaring slightly in the night breeze as he led Eric to a narrow staircase descending into darkness. At the bottom was a hidden pub, its entrance unmarked save for the faint hum of life within.

Tommy pushed open the heavy wooden door, and the world shifted. Inside, the pub was all dark mahogany and sultry gloom, the air thick with smoke and the lazy strains of a jazz singer’s voice. It wasn’t the Eden Club or the Ritz------ this was a place where deals were whispered, not announced, and every face was half-hidden by shadow.

The host froze momentarily, recognition sparking in his eyes as Tommy removed his cap, revealing the sharp planes of his face and those nightmarish blue eyes that could unnerve even the most hardened soul. Without a word, they were led to a corner booth, secluded yet offering a view of the small stage where a woman crooned under dim light.

Tommy sank into the booth, the leather creaking softly beneath him. He lit a cigarette, flame illuminating his face for a brief, flickering moment before plunging him back into darkness. He let silence stretch between them a while, exhaling a curl of smoke as he studied the boy. Then, with deliberate ease, he leaned forward, his voice a low rumble that danced on the edge of menace and intrigue.

"What sort of women do you prefer?" The question came smooth and unhurried, but the intensity behind of it was undeniable. He paused, gaze cutting like a knife. "Not whores, I understand. You find them beneath you."

The words were both an invitation and a challenge, carrying just enough heat to make the air between them crackle. Tommy wasn’t looking for an answer, he was looking for a reaction. ..Something told him Eric wouldn’t disappoint.

to eric, a man who murders with a soft and tender smile--a man who speaks gentle words and hides venom behind lilting laughter--is someone to avoid more so than this man before him. it isn't that either of them are less dangerous, but because eric knows that thomas is dangerous. so he steels himself and follows.

... the night air is cool. heat simmers in his cheeks--between his lungs, remnants of the burning whiskey that'd slid down his throat. slender fingers tug his woolen coat closer, slipping up towards his neck and ( finally ) straightening his tie as he buttons the topmost button. he remains a step away from thomas, hesitant and terribly, horribly careful, still,

but gravitating towards him nonetheless. better the devil you know than the devil you don't, he convinces himself, but he knows that he didn't have to follow the man. he could have politely excused himself to return to his family's home, where the servants always kept the fire crackling and where his father's dog would always greet him with two barks. where there is a book that he hadn't yet finished.

but he had followed this man and his pale, icy eyes out of the door. had known this man for nary a moment. when did he feel comfortable enough to scamper after him like some sort of foolish puppy? eric exhales lightly, burying half his face into the soft fabric of his silk scarf. glances up from underneath the furl of his lashes at thomas,

hesitating to break the silence. not knowing quite what to say.

somewhere i can get some fresh air and peace of fucking mind, the man had uttered. eric hums, soft and light, limned in gold underneath the lamps. he is--not often out and about at night. the city takes on new life, now, familiar and unfamiliar all the same. the shadows stretch out, long against the cobblestone roads, and eric finds himself glancing--sporadically--towards thomas.

( perhaps the night had driven him mad. his brothers would have a fit if he told them about this meeting; they'd trusted him to not run off, to merely show his presence and leave. but the night air is cold and his cheeks are still warm. )

thomas leads him through the winding streets, and eric feels like he could quite possibly die tonight. another unknown corpse in some back alley or another, a knife buried in his gut, but somehow, he can't bring himself to care all too much. ( moon-maddened, surely. there is no other reason. )

you don't come to london often. eric's gaze flickers, soft and dark. carefully, he picks his words, fingertips tugging lightly at the edges of his scarf. "they don't hide me," he says, after a beat. he has to convince himself of that: that his brothers are just overprotective. that he isn't cut out for the family business. that he likes ( soft things. tender things. books and slow mornings and the sound of the rain. ) things that have nothing to do with the action his brothers often see.

"perhaps," a little joke, as he turns his face up to the sky, "you just haven't found me. until tonight." his eyes are heavily-lashed; shadowed underneath wavering light. he slants a glance towards thomas, the corner of his mouth hooking upwards. "you're--very familiar with this city."

he tips his head to the side. "important." he's noticed the stares--though only the ones that are about as subtle as a hammer to the face. "and you know of my family," dark eyes searching--albeit still with that gentle distance. mr. shelby, he remembers the woman saying.

"thomas shelby," soft and inquisitive. the name is, still, familiar. a ghost in his mouth--as if he could taste the syllables on his tongue. he returns to the question, dimples surfacing shallowly. "where would you hide me?" the more he thinks about it, the more the idea amuses him. him, already a man--being hid by his family. as if they would forbid him from leaving, as if they would keep him in some room, undiscovered by the servants or anyone with a slightly looser tongue.