Chapter Text
One week later
The Garrison – back room
The smell hit Darcy before he even saw him—blood, sweat, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Someone had set out a basin and a towel, but the rest of the room was chaos. Tommy stood near the door, jaw clenched tight, hands stained with smoke and ash. John paced like a caged dog. No one spoke.
Arthur was on the settee.
Darcy’s stomach turned.
His face was a mess—eye swollen shut, lip split deep, blood crusted in the corners of his mouth. His shirt was half-ripped, ribs visibly bruised even through the grimy undershirt clinging to his sweat-slicked chest. He was conscious, but barely. Head lolling against the wall, breath ragged, eyes flickering.
“Christ,” Darcy breathed, already moving. “Why didn’t you send for me sooner?”
“You’re here now,” Tommy said. His voice was colder than ice.
Darcy didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees beside Arthur, touching his face carefully. “Arthur. Arthur, love—it’s me.”
Arthur blinked slowly. One eye already sealed shut. “Darce…”
Darcy’s hands moved fast, practiced. He started dabbing at the blood with warm water, checking for broken bones, feeling along the ribs as gently as he could. Arthur winced, hissed, but never pulled away.
“He didn’t know anything,” Tommy muttered behind him. “Didn’t matter. Campbell still used him like a fucking chew toy.”
Darcy kept working. Jaw tight. Voice low. “Of course he didn’t know anything. Arthur’s not a liar. Not like him. ”
Arthur groaned softly. “Didn’t say nothin’… swear it…”
“I know, puppy.” Darcy’s voice cracked only slightly. He smoothed back the blood-matted curls from Arthur’s forehead, dipped the cloth again. “I know you didn’t.”
Arthur whimpered, trying to shift. “Hurts…”
“I’ve got you, love. Just breathe through it. We’ll get you cleaned up, stitched up, and then you can sleep it off, yeah?”
Arthur nodded faintly.
Darcy paused, just long enough to press his lips to Arthur’s temple. Not for show. Not even for comfort. Just because.
Because he had to.
⸻
Later that night
Darcy’s Flat
Arthur was laid out on Darcy’s bed, bruised and broken, wrapped in blankets and silence. Darcy sat beside him, shirt stained with blood, hands still trembling from how close it had all felt.
He hadn’t cried.
Not when he saw the bruises. Not when Arthur winced and said, “I thought I was gonna die there.”
Not even when he had to cut Arthur’s shirt off because the pain was too much for him to lift his arms.
But now, in the stillness, watching him sleep?
Now, Darcy let the tears come.
He wiped them away before Arthur could stir. Always did.
Because Arthur needed strength, not grief. He needed care. Warm tea. Steady hands. Someone to whisper, “You’re safe now,” even if safety was a lie.
Darcy smoothed the blanket higher, brushed his knuckles along Arthur’s cheek.
“I won’t let him have you,” he whispered. “Not Campbell. Not your da. Not the bottle. No one. ”
And in his sleep, Arthur shifted closer.
⸻
The next few days
Darcy’s flat – late morning
Arthur hadn’t left the bed in two days. Not really. Darcy let him have that. He needed rest, real rest, the kind you only get when someone sits by the door and watches for you.
The swelling in his eye had gone down enough that he could open it now, though it was still bruised black and purple. His ribs were worse—bruised so deeply he couldn’t sit up without wincing, couldn’t breathe too deep without cursing.
Darcy had adjusted the pillows just right behind his back, kept the curtains drawn against the morning light, and had the fire burning low to keep the room warm.
Arthur lay quiet, blinking at the ceiling as Darcy entered the room carrying a basin of warm water, steam curling softly into the air.
Arthur groaned. “What now?”
“Sponge bath,” Darcy said simply, setting it on the bedside table. “You stink, love.”
Arthur let out a weak snort. “Thought you liked me rugged.”
Darcy raised a brow. “I like you breathing.”
He dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it out, and sat beside him. “You up for it?”
Arthur nodded faintly. “Just… go slow.”
“Always do.”
Darcy started at his face, gentle swipes along the bruised cheek, the split lip. He worked slowly, careful not to drag the cloth too rough over scabs or stitches. The scent of lavender oil—just a little—rose between them, calming.
Arthur watched him, barely blinking.
“You always do this?” he murmured.
Darcy paused. “What?”
Arthur swallowed. “Take care of people like this.”
Darcy offered a small smile. “Just the ones I can’t bear to lose.”
Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut, chest hitching slightly. He didn’t speak again.
Darcy moved down to his shoulders, pulling back the blanket carefully, exposing the bruises that trailed down Arthur’s chest and ribs like spilled ink. He cleaned them in slow, steady strokes, the warm cloth soothing against sore skin.
Every so often Arthur hissed. Every so often Darcy murmured, “Sorry, love,” and slowed his pace.
When he reached Arthur’s hands, he paused. The knuckles were split, scabbed over. One of his fingers was still slightly swollen.
Darcy lifted the right hand to his lips and kissed it gently.
Arthur opened his eyes. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
Arthur blinked at him, unsure of what to say.
Darcy dipped the cloth again and moved to his legs, methodical, respectful, never crossing a line. Arthur relaxed under it, breath slower, jaw less tense. The heat, the quiet care, the scent of the lavender—it was undoing him.
When Darcy finished, he dried him off with a clean towel and pulled the blankets back up over him, tucking them in under his chin with the care of someone folding up a beloved letter.
“There,” he whispered. “Clean and warm. Just how I like you.”
Arthur blinked up at him. “What did I do to deserve you?”
Darcy gave a tired little smile. “You didn’t. You don’t have to. That’s not how love works, puppy.”
Arthur turned his face slightly, just enough to nuzzle into Darcy’s hand as it lingered against his cheek.
Darcy stayed like that for a while, fingers in his hair, thumb brushing his temple.
He would’ve done it a thousand more times if Arthur needed him to.
⸻
Evening – Darcy’s Flat
Day Four of Arthur’s Recovery
The fire was low, casting a soft amber glow across the room. Arthur lay half-propped up in bed, ribs bandaged tight beneath one of Darcy’s cotton undershirts, eyes dull with pain and fatigue. He hadn’t eaten much that day—just a slice of toast and a spoonful of soup Darcy had all but begged him to take.
The bruises on his face were fading from deep purples to sickly yellows. The swelling had gone down, but the ache lingered.
So did the tremors.
Darcy noticed them as he came in, carrying a small tumbler with just a finger of amber liquid. Arthur’s hands were curled slightly against his stomach, twitching faintly. His jaw clenched.
“Thought I smelled it,” Arthur rasped, voice hoarse.
“You’d be right.” Darcy sat on the edge of the bed, gently brushing Arthur’s sweat-damp curls off his forehead. “Small sips, puppy. That’s all.”
Arthur looked at the glass, ashamed—but he took it. His hands were too unsteady to lift it properly, so Darcy guided it to his lips with both of theirs.
“Easy now,” Darcy murmured. “Just enough to take the edge off. I’m not lettin’ you rattle apart on me.”
Arthur swallowed. His throat worked around the burn. When he exhaled, it was shaky, but calmer.
“Didn’t think I’d feel it this fast,” he admitted, blinking hard. “It’s only been a few days…”
“You’ve been drinking hard for years, love,” Darcy said gently, setting the glass aside. “Your body’s more used to it than you are. We take it slow.”
Arthur nodded, gaze distant. “I don’t wanna be ruled by it.”
“You’re not ,” Darcy said firmly. “Not here. Not while I’ve got you.”
Arthur leaned into him, resting his head against Darcy’s shoulder. “You’re always here…”
Darcy wrapped an arm around him, pulling the blanket a little tighter around his legs. “Always will be.”
Arthur’s voice dropped. “Even when I’m a mess?”
“You’re my mess,” Darcy whispered, kissing his hair. “And I’ll clean you up every time.”
They sat like that for a long while—Darcy’s hand on Arthur’s back, the faint clink of the glass as it was set down forgotten on the table. The world outside could wait.
Inside, there was only this: pain, yes—but also care. Also love. Also trying.
And in that, there was hope.
⸻
One Week Later
Outside the Garrison Pub – Early Evening
Arthur looked better.
Still a little thin, sure. Still moved with that slight stiffness that came from healing ribs and lingering ghosts. But his eye was clear now. His voice steady. His coat was clean, shirt buttoned straight, hair combed back—well, mostly . And his grin?
Wide. Unapologetic.
Tommy stood beside him on the curb, arms crossed, watching with that unreadable expression he always wore when he was proud but wouldn’t dare say it aloud.
“She’s yours now,” Tommy said quietly, nodding to the Garrison’s newly polished doors. “Run it how you want. We’ve got your back if anyone causes trouble. But this place—it’s you.”
Arthur’s throat worked, swallowing emotion he hadn’t expected. “This mine for real?”
Tommy nodded. “You earned it.”
Arthur looked at the doors again. Then back at Tommy.
Then—he bolted.
Not inside.
Down the street.
Tommy blinked. “Where the hell are you—”
“I gotta get Darcy!”
⸻
Ten Minutes Later
Darcy’s Flat – Kitchen
Darcy was wiping flour from his hands when the knock came—sharp, rapid, full of energy. The kind of knock that meant only one person.
He opened the door, apron still on.
Arthur grinned at him like a boy who’d found a treasure map. “ Come with me! ”
Darcy blinked. “Is something wrong?”
Arthur practically vibrated in place. “No! No, it’s—just c’mon. It’s important. You’ve got to see.”
He grabbed Darcy’s hand without waiting, dragging him down the street, laughing like he couldn’t hold it in. Darcy, bewildered but charmed, allowed it.
“Arthur, what in God’s name is this about?”
“You’ll see! Just wait!”
⸻
The Garrison Pub
The lamps were freshly lit, windows cleaned, tables polished. There were still little marks of grit here and there—nothing in Small Heath ever stayed spotless—but it had a warmth now. A charm.
Arthur burst through the doors, still holding Darcy’s hand.
“ Ta-da! ” he declared, spinning on his heel, arms wide. “ It’s mine! ”
Darcy blinked. “Yours?”
“Tommy gave it to me. Said I’m in charge. My rules. My bar. Can you believe that, Darce?” His eyes were shining. “I own the Garrison.”
Darcy’s heart swelled.
He stepped closer, taking in Arthur’s flushed face, the boyish pride, the way his fingers still gripped Darcy’s like he was afraid he might float away otherwise.
“In France,” Arthur said, softer now, “I used to dream about this. Me, behind the bar. Music. Warm light. Somewhere safe. Somewhere that was mine. ”
Darcy reached up, brushing a thumb gently across his cheek.
“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered.
Arthur’s breath hitched.
“You helped me get here, y’know. Every step. Every time I fell apart, you just… stayed. Held me together.”
Darcy smiled. “That’s what you do for puppies, isn’t it?”
Arthur gave a watery laugh.
And right there, in the middle of the empty Garrison, Arthur Shelby—bruised and healing, recovering and hopeful —wrapped his arms around Darcy and held him like he was anchoring himself to the earth.
“I’m gonna do it right this time,” he said quietly. “For you. For me. For this.”
Darcy pressed his forehead to Arthur’s.
“You already are.”
⸻
Later That Night
The Garrison – The Snug
It was warm inside, the snug humming with low laughter, the clink of glasses, the scent of tobacco and scuffed wood.
Tommy sat with his legs crossed, calm as ever, one hand draped over his whiskey like he owned the whole world (and he nearly did). John was leaning back, halfway through some loud, absurd story about a horse that bit him, waving his hands for emphasis.
Arthur—Arthur was glowing.
Coat off, sleeves rolled, cheeks flushed from drink and joy. He had Darcy tucked against his side like a favorite pillow, one arm draped lazily around his shoulders, the other waving a glass around with dangerous enthusiasm.
“And then,” Arthur hiccupped through laughter, “Tommy tells the copper, ‘It’s not my gun, it’s his,’ and points at me! And the copper’s lookin’ at me like I’ve got a bloody grenade up me arse!”
John howled. Tommy smirked faintly. Arthur beamed.
Darcy smiled softly into his tea, nestled into Arthur’s side, letting himself soak in the warmth of it. This was one of the rare moments— really rare—when Arthur was happy. Loud, messy, but happy.
Arthur turned and pressed a sloppy kiss to Darcy’s temple, then another to his cheek. “Love you, Darce,” he slurred, nuzzling him clumsily. “You’re the only one who never gave up on me.”
Darcy sighed. Heavy. Patient. Affectionate.
“I know, puppy,” he murmured, brushing a hand through Arthur’s curls.
Arthur laughed, resting his cheek on Darcy’s shoulder like he meant to live there forever.
John stood to refill the drinks. “Oi, Darcy—Arthur’s lookin’ thirsty.”
Darcy stood too, steady and smooth. “Let me.”
He reached for Arthur’s glass, took it from the table, and with quiet grace switched it with his own tea while John was turned toward the bar. A practiced move. One he’d done before. One no one but Tommy likely noticed.
Arthur reached for the cup, didn’t question it, just sipped and blinked at the taste. “Huh.”
“New blend,” Darcy said, sliding back into the seat beside him. “Bar experiment. Tastes like smoke and regret.”
Arthur giggled—an honest to God giggle —and leaned harder into Darcy, eyes already fluttering.
By the time John sat back down with another bottle, Arthur was half-asleep, his head heavy on Darcy’s shoulder, breath evening out.
Tommy glanced over his glass at them, one brow raised. “He’s out?”
Darcy gave a fond nod. “Won’t remember a thing come morning.”
John rolled his eyes. “He never does.”
Darcy just smiled, curling an arm around Arthur’s back, cradling him like he always did.
Because even if Arthur forgot, Darcy never did.
And he’d be there tomorrow—tea brewed, aspirin ready, a blanket tucked around the puppy who didn’t know how to ask for love unless it was soaked in whiskey and half a memory.
⸻
The Next Morning
The Garrison – Private Room
Arthur was still asleep on the snug couch, blanket tucked around his broad shoulders, face slack in that rare, peaceful way Darcy had seen only a handful of times.
Darcy sat beside him, legs curled up beneath himself, one hand slowly stroking through Arthur’s hair—fingers threading through the long dark waves at the top, then back, down to the soft fuzz at the undercut where the skin was always warm. It was a rhythm. A comfort. Something Darcy did whether Arthur was drunk, asleep, or sick with regret.
Arthur made a faint noise, not quite waking, and pressed deeper into the touch like a cat into a sunbeam.
The door opened softly.
Darcy didn’t stop his motion.
Tommy stepped inside, lit cigarette in hand, closing the door behind him. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at Arthur—really looked at him.
Then he turned to Darcy.
“You gave him tea last night.”
Darcy gave a soft smile, still stroking. “You noticed.”
“John didn’t,” Tommy said, tone dry. “Didn’t expect me to, did you?”
Darcy paused for a moment, then shook his head once. “No. But I’m glad you did.”
Silence stretched for a few seconds. Tommy moved to lean against the far wall, arms crossed, cigarette burning low.
“He was always the strongest, y’know. When we were kids. Took the beatings, took Da’s moods, took care of me and John before we ever knew what it meant.” He exhaled smoke. “But he’s the weakest too.”
Darcy’s fingers didn’t stop. “That’s not weakness. It’s weight. He just never learned how to put it down.”
Tommy nodded slowly. “And I never knew how to help him carry it. Neither did John.”
He looked over at Darcy—sharp, but not cold. Quiet.
“You did.”
Darcy looked up at him, a little surprised.
Tommy went on. “You never tried to fix him. Never told him to man up or pull through or stop feelin’. You just… held him steady. ”
Darcy blinked once, then turned his gaze back to Arthur, still sleeping, still soft beneath his hand.
“I never wanted to fix him,” he said quietly. “Just wanted to make it easier to breathe.”
Tommy nodded.
A beat passed.
“Thank you,” he said at last.
Soft. Rare. Honest.
Darcy looked up at him again. “You don’t have to.”
“I do,” Tommy replied, already turning for the door. “’Cause if he ever makes it through this mess, it won’t be ’cause of me. It’ll be because of you. ”
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Darcy sat in the silence, fingers still moving through Arthur’s hair, gentle and steady.
And Arthur, half-stirring in his sleep, whispered like a child, “Darce…”
“I’m here,” Darcy whispered back.
“I know.”
And he drifted off again, safe.
⸻
Late Morning
Darcy’s Flat
Arthur stumbled a little on the last step of the porch step, still rubbing sleep from his eyes like a man wading through fog. He didn’t ask how he’d got to Darcy’s—just knew . Knew by the clink of porcelain, the low simmer of the kettle. Knew because his body ached in that familiar, post-bender way, but his clothes were clean, his mouth didn’t taste like ash, and his ribs didn’t burn from trying to sleep on the floor.
Darcy had helped. Again.
Darcy always helped.
Arthur sat at the table without speaking, arms braced on the wood, hands curled like he might hold something if he could just figure out what it was. The kitchen was filled with soft clinks and bubbling and the warmth of familiarity.
Darcy didn’t say anything about the night before.
He placed a warm mug of milk and honey tea in front of Arthur, followed by a plate of toast with jam, a boiled egg cracked open with the little spoon beside it, and finally—two aspirin on a folded napkin.
Arthur blinked at it all. Then looked up at Darcy, who stood across the table with that same tired, gentle gaze he always wore when Arthur came undone.
Arthur squinted. “Did I…”
Darcy tilted his head slightly. “You don’t remember.”
Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, wincing. “No.”
Darcy only nodded. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”
Arthur opened his mouth like he might say something— sorry , maybe, or what did I do —but the words died in his throat. He dropped his gaze, shoulders curling inward.
Darcy’s heart broke a little. Not from disappointment. From understanding.
He crossed the small room, placed a soft hand on Arthur’s shoulder, and leaned down just enough to press a kiss to the crown of his head.
Then he moved to the sink. Quiet. Steady.
He said nothing about the way Arthur had clung to him the night before. Nothing about the slurred I love you s, the kisses to his temple, the way Arthur had curled into him like a man trying to crawl back into safety.
Because Darcy knew.
He knew Arthur remembered none of it.
And more than that—he knew Arthur couldn’t face it. Not in the morning. Not in the light.
Arthur drank to feel what he couldn’t allow sober.
And Darcy—gentle, bleeding Darcy—just made tea and whispered, You’re alright, puppy , in the dark, and never asked for more.
⸻
Late Afternoon
Abandoned Warehouse – Makeshift Boxing Gym
The place stank of sweat, sawdust, and damp brick. Makeshift ropes sagged between steel columns, chalk dust floated in the air like ash, and the sound of fists hitting flesh echoed off the walls like a war drum.
Darcy stood by a stack of crates, arms folded, scarf tucked against the cold draft coming through the broken windowpanes. He said nothing. Just watched.
Arthur was in the ring.
No shirt, just wraps on his knuckles and bruises blooming new over old. His chest heaved with every breath, skin slick with sweat, curls clinging to his brow. The man across from him was taller, younger, meaner-looking—but Arthur moved like someone who didn’t care if he got hurt.
He fought like he had something to burn.
Darcy knew the signs—shoulders too tight, teeth bared, every punch thrown like it was personal. Arthur wasn’t boxing. He was purging . And the others in the room either didn’t see it or didn’t care.
The hit came—Arthur took a jab to the jaw and laughed.
Then he unleashed.
Three rapid strikes to the ribs, an uppercut that knocked the man flat. The crowd whooped. The downed fighter wheezed, rolled onto his side. Arthur stood over him, chest heaving, eyes wild.
Darcy saw it—the line between thrill and trigger. Arthur’s fists clenched again. He wasn’t done.
“ Arthur! ”
The name cut through the noise.
Arthur turned—breathing hard, body twitching like a struck wire—until his eyes found Darcy.
Just like that, the heat behind his stare softened.
Darcy gave him a small nod. Calm. Steady.
I see you, it said.
Arthur blinked, the rage bleeding out of his shoulders like steam. He stepped back, arms dropping. A few of the men booed half-heartedly. Arthur didn’t care.
He climbed out of the ring, moving stiffly, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand.
Darcy met him halfway.
“You done?” he asked softly.
Arthur nodded. “Yeah.”
Darcy offered him a towel. “You fought well. Little too well.”
Arthur didn’t look at him. “Needed to let it out.”
Darcy didn’t press. Just walked beside him to the bench in the corner, where he had water and a clean shirt waiting.
He helped Arthur sit, watched him drink, gently wiped sweat and blood from his cheek.
Arthur didn’t speak. Didn’t apologize. But he let Darcy tend to him.
That was enough.
Because Darcy knew what this was.
Arthur didn’t fight to win.
He fought not to break .
And Darcy—quiet, constant, loving Darcy—would always be there, just outside the ropes, watching.
Waiting.
Holding him steady from the sidelines.
⸻
The Next Evening
The Warehouse Gym – Late
The place was buzzing with noise again—shouts, grunts, the thud of fists on heavy bags, boots echoing on concrete. The ring ropes sagged the same way they always did. Nothing about the place ever really changed.
Darcy stepped inside quietly, arms wrapped around himself beneath his overcoat, scarf tucked neatly under his chin. He never looked like he belonged there—too gentle, too neat, too clean for a place built out of spit and fury.
But Arthur noticed him the second he walked in.
He was on the bench lacing up his boots, hands resting on his knees. He didn’t smile—Arthur rarely did when he was getting into that fight mode —but he gave a single nod, almost imperceptible.
Darcy nodded back and made his way to his usual spot near the ropes, next to an old radiator that rattled when the boiler kicked in.
He never said much.
Never bet.
Never fought.
Just watched.
After a few minutes, the man who ran the place—a stocky fellow named Harris with a crooked nose and bald—wandered over to Arthur, jerking his chin toward the quiet figure near the ropes.
“What’s with your mate?” he asked. “He don’t bet. Don’t throw punches. Just stands there lookin’ like a librarian.”
Arthur’s jaw twitched.
He didn’t look up from his wraps.
“Darcy’s not here for the fights.”
“Then what’s he here for?”
Arthur tightened one wrap too hard and had to redo it. “He’s here for me. ”
Harris raised an eyebrow. “That so?”
Arthur didn’t answer. Just finished the wrap, stood up, and climbed into the ring.
Harris muttered something about “waste of space” and walked off.
But Darcy had caught the look Arthur gave—just for a second. Defiant. Possessive. Like he dared anyone to question why Darcy was there.
Darcy’s heart ached.
He didn’t need Arthur to say it out loud. He already knew.
He wasn’t here to fight or to bet.
He was here to anchor.
Arthur fought for control, for release, for silence in his head.
And Darcy? Darcy just stood outside the ropes, hands tucked in his coat, and gave Arthur something to come back to when the bell rang.
⸻
Later that night
Warehouse Boxing Ring
The crowd had shifted from loose interest to something sharper—electric, volatile. The kind of atmosphere that meant blood. Bets shouted. Cheers turned to jeers. Someone whistled. Someone else slammed a bottle down on a crate.
Arthur didn’t hear any of it.
His world had narrowed.
Fists. Breath. Rage.
The man in front of him was good—quick, nasty jabs, liked to play dirty. He’d caught Arthur in the ribs twice and clipped his jaw with an elbow that wasn’t accidental.
Arthur’s lip was split. His vision blurring at the edges. And in his head—
He’s right there.
His father’s voice.
That sneer. That voice that said you’re nothing but muscle and noise, boy.
The next punch Arthur threw knocked the man off balance.
The one after that sent him sprawling.
And then Arthur didn’t stop.
He dove, straddled the man’s chest, fists rising again and again, his breath ragged. The man underneath him was bleeding, hands raised, half-shouting, “Enough—enough— I yield! ”
But Arthur didn’t hear.
Didn’t see.
Red mist. Just red. Just—
“ Arthur. ”
One voice.
Clear. Soft.
“ Arthur, love—look at me. ”
He froze.
Fists still raised. Chest heaving.
And then— Darcy stepped between the ropes.
Calm. Unafraid. Moving slowly, deliberately, his coat unbuttoned, scarf loose, hands up like one might approach a wounded dog.
“Arthur,” he said again, voice like silk over bruises. “It’s me. Come back now, puppy.”
Arthur’s fists trembled.
He blinked once.
Twice.
And then dropped his arms.
He climbed off the man beneath him and staggered backward, legs buckling slightly. Darcy was there immediately, arms sliding around his waist, grounding him. Helping him out of the ring and off to the side.
“It’s alright,” Darcy whispered. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”
The crowd murmured, confused. Someone scoffed. Another man whistled low, amused.
Darcy didn’t care.
Arthur didn’t either.
He buried his face in Darcy’s shoulder momentarily and let out a slow, shaking breath, still riding the wave of violence and adrenaline.
Darcy just held him.
Like he always did.
Like he would do, every time Arthur lost himself.
⸻
Fifteen Minutes Later
Warehouse – Quiet Corner
The boxing crowd had mostly cleared out, voices echoing through the rafters as the men filtered outside to smoke, drink, or argue about the match. The energy was gone, replaced with muttered chatter and the soft metallic creak of the ring ropes settling.
Darcy had guided Arthur—wordless, gentle—into a quiet corner behind a stack of crates and an old overturned barrel. It wasn’t private, not really, but it was enough . Enough for Arthur to come down, enough for Darcy to wrap him in quiet care.
Arthur sat on an upturned crate, knuckles bleeding, shoulders slumped like the fight had taken more than just sweat from him. Darcy knelt in front of him, gently wiping at the dried blood with a cloth dipped in cool water from his flask.
Arthur watched him.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t flinch.
Darcy dabbed one knuckle, then the other, cradling his hand like something precious—not broken, just tired .
“I didn’t…” Arthur’s voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to go that far.”
Darcy didn’t look up. “I know.”
“It wasn’t the lad in the ring. It was him. I saw—” He broke off, jaw clenched.
Darcy paused, then said quietly, “Your da.”
Arthur nodded once, then twice more, like he was trying to make it true. “He used to say I couldn’t control myself. That I was an animal. Said I’d always be his fuck-up.”
Darcy’s throat tightened, but he kept cleaning.
Arthur went on, voice low and raw. “I don’t hate him. Not like Tommy does. Or John. I want to. But I keep thinking maybe if I just… if I could show him I’ve got somethin’. That I’m not useless.”
Darcy wrung the cloth out, setting it aside.
Then he reached up, cupped Arthur’s bruised face in his hands, thumbs brushing the edges of his jaw.
“You’re not useless, Arthur. Not to me. Not to Tommy. You’ve kept that family breathing when everything else tried to break them. You’re a fighter, yeah—but you’re not a monster. And he—he made you believe that love had to hurt. But it doesn’t. Not here. Not with me.”
Arthur blinked hard, eyes glassy.
Darcy leaned in and pressed his forehead to Arthur’s.
“You’re allowed to feel,” he whispered. “You’re allowed to break sometimes. But you come back to me. Always.”
Arthur let out a shaky breath, fists curling into Darcy’s coat.
“I’m so fucking tired of fighting.”
“I know, puppy,” Darcy murmured, brushing his fingers through Arthur’s damp curls again. “So let me fight for you awhile.”
Arthur didn’t answer.
But he leaned in.
And for a few blessed minutes, he let himself be held.
Not like a fighter.
Not like a Shelby.
Just a man who needed to be loved —quietly, gently, completely.
⸻
Late Afternoon
Warehouse Boxing Ring
Darcy had been called away to the Garrison—someone split their head open after a card game went south, and Tommy had sent for him like always. “Tell Arthur I’ll send a runner if anything kicks off,” Tommy had said, already lighting a cigarette.
Arthur, left with a few hours to burn, wandered back to the warehouse gym. He hadn’t boxed in days, just kept his head down, worked quietly, stayed clean. The anger still simmered, but he’d been managing it.
He walked into the warehouse expecting the usual—a half-empty room, some grunting, a few men testing their reach on the heavy bags.
But the noise hit him hard— cheers , loud ones. A crowd had gathered. That kind of crowd.
Arthur pushed through the bodies, brow furrowing. The ring ropes shook, and in the center of it all was a man—big, brutal, sweat gleaming on his chest, moving like a seasoned bruiser with something to prove. His fists flew like pistons, and the other fighter, younger and quicker, was losing ground fast.
Arthur narrowed his eyes.
There was something familiar in the way the man moved.
The final punch cracked across the kid’s jaw, sending him sprawling onto the mat.
And the winner—grinning wide, breathing heavy—threw his arms wide and shouted:
“ I’m Arthur fucking Shelby! ”
The crowd roared.
Arthur’s stomach dropped.
He stepped forward, pushing through the last few men to get a better look.
The fighter turned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand—and there he was.
Arthur Shelby Senior.
Older, yes. A little thicker around the middle. A few more lines in his face.
But the eyes were the same.
The grin.
The swagger.
Arthur couldn’t breathe.
His da stood in the middle of his gym. In his ring. Winning. Taking up space. And the crowd loved him.
Arthur Sr. spotted him then.
Blinking at first.
Then smiling.
“Arthur?” he said, voice loud but warm. “ My boy! ”
The sound struck Arthur like a blow. His knees went loose, but he didn’t fall.
The crowd parted around them as Arthur Sr. stepped out of the ring, pulling a towel from one of the hangers, dabbing at his face. He walked right up to Arthur and grabbed him by the shoulders.
“ Christ Almighty, look at you!” he said. “You’re a man now.”
Arthur stared. “Da…”
“Yeah, it’s me.” He laughed, big and booming. “Come home, have you? I heard you lot were runnin’ the streets like kings these days. Making a real name for yourself eh?”
Arthur didn’t speak.
His da clapped him on the back. “I’ve changed, son. No more drink. No more trouble. Found the Lord over in Leeds. Thought I’d come see my boys again. Make things right.”
Arthur swallowed hard. “You… you found religion?”
Arthur Sr. grinned. “Everyone’s got sins to make up for, son. Even me.”
Arthur’s heart was pounding. Part of him wanted to punch the man. Part of him wanted to believe him.
And somewhere, deep down, that little boy who always wanted his da to say you’re enough woke up again.
This was it.
His chance to prove himself.
To be seen.
To be wanted.
And Arthur nodded slowly, voice dry in his throat.
“I’m running the Garrison now,” he said quietly. “Tommy gave it to me.”
Arthur Sr.’s smile widened.
“Atta boy.”
⸻
Watery Lane House – Kitchen
Early Evening
The house smelled like weak mustard and white bread. Polly stood like stone next to the kitchen table, arms crossed, expression carved in granite. Finn hovered by the wall, wide-eyed, hugging his knees on the stair just high enough to see but not be seen.
Arthur Sr. sat at the table like he owned the place—sleeves rolled, teeth working through a sandwich like it was just another Tuesday in 1901. Across from him, Arthur sat upright, anxious but proud, like a boy showing off a report card no one had asked to see.
That’s when the door opened.
Tommy first. Then John. Then Darcy.
Tommy stopped dead in the threshold.
John muttered, “Fucking hell …”
Arthur Sr. looked up, chewing lazily. He smiled wide. “Well, would you look at that. My boys. All grown. Thought I’d get a damn parade the way they talk about you lot now.”
Tommy didn’t return the smile. Neither did John.
Darcy’s eyes dropped immediately, quiet, shoulders pulling inward.
Arthur stood, trying to be the bridge. “He’s changed,” he said quickly, looking between his brothers. “He’s sober. Found God. Said he wants to make things right.”
Tommy’s jaw flexed. John didn’t blink.
“You mean he says he found God,” Polly muttered under her breath, loud enough to count.
Finn stayed on the stairs. Still watching.
Arthur Sr. wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then turned—and his eyes landed on Darcy.
And that grin turned mean.
“Oh right, ” he said. “You boys still hangin’ around that fairy? The little nursemaid.”
Darcy’s breath hitched. Just slightly. But he said nothing.
Arthur Sr. squinted, lips twisting. “What was it you used to call yourself? Some girl’s name, yeah? Ah—fuck—don’t tell me. Darla? Daisy?”
Darcy’s hands clenched behind his back.
“ Darcy ,” Tommy snapped.
Arthur Sr. raised his brows in mock surprise. “Right. Darcy. Still playin’ dress-up in the dark, lad?”
“Watch your mouth,” John growled, stepping forward.
Arthur flinched. “He’s joking, come on—he didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
Tommy turned his head slowly toward Arthur. “He meant exactly what he said.”
Arthur Sr. raised his sandwich in mock toast. “Boys these days, eh? Soft as fuckin’ goose shite. No offense.” He smirked at Darcy.
Darcy still hadn’t said a word. But his eyes were on the floor, his jaw tight. His silence wasn’t weakness—it was survival.
Tommy stepped in front of him. Protective. Cold. “You don’t talk to him.”
Arthur Sr. sat back. “It’s my house , Tom.”
“No,” Tommy said, voice low. “It’s ours. You gave it up when you ran off.”
Arthur looked between them all, heart in his throat, shame and loyalty twisting together like barbed wire.
“He’s my da…” he muttered. “He’s trying…”
“No, Arthur,” Polly said sharply. “He’s not. He’s testing how much he can get away with. And you just let him use Darcy’s face to do it.”
Arthur’s face crumpled for a moment. He looked at Darcy, finally—really looked . Saw the smallness in his stance. The bruised edge to his silence.
And it hit him.
“I didn’t mean to let that go,” he said softly. “Darce…”
Darcy lifted his eyes. No tears. No rage.
Just a tired, quiet, wound.
“I know, puppy,” he said. “But you did.”
Arthur Sr. scoffed. “Christ— puppy? You’re lettin’ him call you puppy? You are soft.”
John cracked his knuckles.
Tommy turned to Darcy. “Go home, love. We’ll handle this.”
Darcy nodded once, quietly. He didn’t look at Arthur again.
And when he left the room, something in Arthur left with him.
Because he realized too late that wanting a father and protecting a man who loved you weren’t the same thing.
And he had failed the one who always stood beside him.
The air was dead silent after Darcy left.
The door clicked gently behind him, but it echoed like a shot. Finn had stopped fidgeting on the stairs, watching with wide eyes. Polly’s arms were folded so tightly across her chest it looked like she was keeping herself from throwing something.
Arthur stood frozen, torn between his father’s smirk and the absence Darcy left behind.
Tommy stepped forward, calm as ice—but his voice, when it came, cut .
“You don’t ever speak about him like that.”
Arthur Sr. raised an eyebrow. “What, can’t take a joke now? Man’s soft, and you know it.”
“ He’s a better man than you ever were, ” John snapped, stepping up beside Tommy. “He’s the reason any of us are still walkin’. You didn’t see him in the trenches, Da. You were too busy hidin’ in fuck knows where with your thumb up your arse while we bled in France.”
Arthur Sr.’s grin faltered.
Tommy’s voice didn’t rise. It dropped. Flat. Lethal. “Darcy pulled bullets out of us with his bare hands. Stopped Arthur from bleeding out more than once. He carried John a mile through mud with a shell wound in his own leg. You want to talk about soft ? You don’t even know what that means.”
Tommy stepped closer.
“That ‘fairy,’ as you like to call him, saved more lives than I’ve ever taken. More than you’ll ever be worth. ”
Arthur Sr. snorted. “You’re just boys. You don’t get it. That lad—he’s twisted. Always was. Should’ve had it beaten out of him before it took root.”
John bumped a chair hard as it scraped across the floor when he stepped forward, fists clenched. Polly grabbed his arm before he could move.
Tommy didn’t flinch.
“You’re not a father,” he said, voice cold as stone. “You’re a ghost with a bad mouth. You show up after years , insult the only person who’s never left us, and you think we’ll kiss your feet?”
Arthur Sr. bristled. “I came to make things right.”
“You came for a second chance to control us,” Tommy hissed. “But we’re not your boys anymore.”
He stepped even closer, so close the table barely separated them.
“ Get the fuck out of our house. ”
Arthur Sr. looked around.
Polly’s eyes didn’t soften.
John was vibrating with rage.
Finn was silent, watching, finally beginning to understand .
Arthur looked down at the floor, ashamed.
And finally— finally —Arthur Sr. knew when he wasn’t wanted.
He stood slowly, tossed what was left of the sandwich onto the plate, and gave a bitter laugh.
“Fine. But don’t come cryin’ when it all comes down around you.”
He walked to the door.
No one stopped him.
And when it shut behind him, the tension didn’t vanish.
It just settled.
Like the dust after a bomb.
Tommy ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll check on Darcy.”
John sat down heavily, muttering, “Should’ve punched his teeth in.”
Polly lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.
Arthur didn’t speak.
Because nothing he could say would undo what he hadn’t done.
He hadn’t protected Darcy.
And that silence would hang on him like a weight.
The silence hadn’t broken.
Arthur stood at the edge of the table like he was still waiting for someone to say it wasn’t real. That Darcy hadn’t just walked out. That his da hadn’t just done what he always did.
Tommy finally looked at him. Cold. Controlled.
“You gonna follow him?”
Arthur blinked, startled. “What?”
Tommy’s voice was quieter now. Deadly calm. “You want to believe him that badly? Go with him. But don’t do it here. ”
Arthur’s mouth opened, closed.
John wouldn’t even look at him. Just stared at the wall, jaw clenched tight.
“I didn’t mean to—” Arthur started.
Tommy raised a hand. “We know. That’s the problem. You never mean to. But you still let him in.”
Arthur looked at Polly, but even she said nothing.
His chest ached. He needed out .
So he left.
⸻
Birmingham Backstreets – boxing gym
Arthur found him near the boxing gym, leaning against a brick wall with a half-smoked cigarette and a gleam in his eye like he’d already won something.
Arthur approached, still winded from walking fast, heart pounding.
“You didn’t have to say all that shite,” he said, voice sharp but not raised. “About Darcy.”
Arthur Sr. shrugged. “C’mon, boy. Bit of teasing. He’s a big lad. He can take it.”
Arthur frowned. “He saved my life. On the front. Twice.”
Arthur Sr. squinted at him. “That so?”
“Yeah,” Arthur said, a little more forcefully. “So maybe you show some fuckin’ respect.”
His da laughed, clapping him on the back. “Alright, alright. Maybe he’s tougher than he looks. You always did have a soft spot for strays.”
Arthur didn’t answer. He wanted to argue. But then—
“I got an idea,” Arthur Sr. said, flicking the cigarette away. “Big one. Not this scrap-and-pub rubbish. A casino. Classy. Velvet tables, real croupiers. Birmingham doesn’t have one yet. Could make a killing.”
Arthur blinked. “A casino?”
Arthur Sr. grinned. “All I need’s five hundred to grease the wheels. Place on New Canal Street—up for lease. I’ve got a contact in London already lookin’ at licensing.”
Arthur hesitated.
That gnawing ache clawed up his ribs again. The one that said: Tommy doesn’t trust you with business. John thinks you’re a joke. Darcy had to pour tea down your throat just to keep you from shattering.
But maybe—maybe this time he could do it.
His da smiled at him, warm and slick. “You help me get it goin’? Show those little brothers of yours you’ve got the head for more than fists?”
Arthur stood straighter. “I’ll get it.”
Arthur Sr.’s eyes gleamed. “Atta boy.”
And in that moment, Arthur Shelby—the soldier, the fighter, the broken eldest—glowed with the fragile hope of a child who still believed his da could want him.
⸻
That Same Evening
Darcy’s Flat – Upstairs, Just Off Watery Lane
Tommy knocked softly first—out of respect. He didn’t wait for a reply.
He opened the door to the familiar scent of chamomile and honey, the low hum of the kettle on the stove, and the quiet sound of someone trying very hard not to cry.
Darcy stood in the kitchen, back turned, one hand clutching the edge of the counter, the other trembling as he poured water into two mugs. His shoulders shook once—just once—but it was enough.
Tommy stepped inside and shut the door quietly behind him.
“Darce.”
Darcy stiffened.
He didn’t turn around.
Tommy crossed the room in a few slow strides, stopping just beside him. He looked down. The tea had overflowed in one mug, dripping onto the saucer below.
Darcy finally looked up, blinking fast—but the tears were already falling. Silent, hot streaks down his freckled cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice hoarse. “This is stupid. I shouldn’t—he doesn’t deserve—”
He choked off, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth.
Tommy didn’t speak. He just reached out, wrapped his arms around Darcy, and pulled him in.
Darcy froze for a second—Tommy never hugged him.
Then he broke.
Body crumpling against Tommy’s chest, fingers gripping his coat tight, breath hitching in that way that meant he’d been holding it all in too long.
Tommy just held him.
Held him like a brother. Like someone who knew what grief felt like when it got inside your ribs and never left.
“I knew he’d say something,” Tommy murmured. “I should’ve stopped it faster.”
Darcy shook his head against him. “It’s not just what he said, it’s—Arthur didn’t—he didn’t stop him.”
Tommy nodded against Darcy’s hair. “He’s a fool. He still wants the man to be someone worth loving.”
“I know, ” Darcy whispered. “And I don’t want it to hurt. I tell myself not to let it. But I still— I still love him, Tommy. Like a bloody idiot. ”
Tommy didn’t reply to that.
He just tightened his arms.
And Darcy cried.
Soft, quiet, broken sobs that cracked between his ribs. His fingers curled in Tommy’s lapels, and he whispered through gritted teeth, “I wish my mum was here.”
“I know,” Tommy said gently. “So do I.”
They stood like that until the kettle boiled dry, and the tea went cold.
But neither of them moved.
Because in that moment, all Darcy needed was someone to be the one holding him .
⸻
Darcy’s Flat – Front Steps
Later That Night
The front door creaked open just as Tommy stepped out into the quiet street, coat pulled tight against the chill, cigarette tucked behind his ear.
Arthur was there.
Hands in his pockets, brow furrowed, eyes heavy. He froze mid-step when he saw his brother.
Tommy didn’t blink.
“You here to apologize?” he asked, flat.
Arthur swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
“ Properly. ” Tommy’s voice sharpened just slightly. “Not just for Da. For not saying anything. For letting Darcy stand there alone while the man who mocked him as a boy in our own home did it again.”
Arthur looked away. Ashamed. “I know.”
Tommy stepped close—just close enough for it to land.
“If you don’t go in there and say it right, you don’t get to stand beside him next time.”
Arthur nodded, voice barely a whisper. “I won’t mess it up.”
Tommy studied him for a moment, then stepped aside.
“He’s in the kitchen. Making fresh tea. Still shook.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened. “Thanks for checking on him.”
Tommy’s tone softened—just a breath. “Don’t make me do it for you again.”
And with that, he walked off into the night, boots echoing on cobblestone.
Arthur stood at the door for a long moment.
Then he knocked. Softly.
From inside, a quiet voice called, “Come in.”
Arthur opened the door.
The warm smell of honey and milk drifted out.
And the reckoning— his reckoning—waited in the flicker of a gaslamp and the weight of Darcy’s silence.
⸻
Darcy’s Flat – Kitchen
Moments Later
The kettle was whistling softly again. Darcy stood by the stove, back turned, still in his house robe—flannel, worn, comforting. His hands moved with practiced rhythm: mugs out, milk poured, honey stirred in with the same quiet devotion he gave everything else.
Arthur stood just inside the door. Didn’t sit. Didn’t speak at first.
Darcy didn’t turn around.
“I was hopin’ it was you,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “You’re the only one who knocks like that.”
Arthur swallowed. “Darce…”
He hated how small his voice sounded.
Darcy finally turned, eyes red-rimmed but calm. Not angry. Not bitter. Just… tired .
Arthur stepped forward, rubbing his hands together like he was trying to scrub something off his palms.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “For not speakin’ up. For lettin’ him say what he did. For you havin’ to walk out of what’s always been your home while I just sat there.”
Darcy nodded, gaze fixed on the tea for a moment.
Then he pushed one of the mugs toward Arthur. “Sit, then.”
Arthur obeyed, sinking into the chair like his bones were heavier than usual.
Darcy sat across from him.
“You didn’t say anything,” Darcy said softly. “And you didn’t look at me. That hurt more than what he said.”
Arthur’s throat bobbed. “I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to believe he’d changed.”
“I know,” Darcy said. “And I know why you wanted that.”
Arthur looked down at his tea. “I was a coward.”
“You’ve been braver for me than most,” Darcy murmured. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t get it wrong sometimes.”
Arthur finally looked up at him, guilt swimming in his eyes. “I don’t deserve your kindness.”
Darcy gave a sad little smile. “Maybe not. But you’ve got it anyway.”
Arthur exhaled like someone had been holding him underwater.
They sat in silence for a few moments, the steam curling between them.
Darcy sipped his tea. “You didn’t tell me why you came. Not really.”
Arthur hesitated.
His fingers drummed once, then stilled.
“I wanted to say sorry,” he repeated. “I wanted… I didn’t want the last thing you saw to be me, sittin’ there, lettin’ that man treat you like less than you are.”
Darcy nodded. Accepted it. Because he couldn’t not .
But Arthur didn’t mention the money. Or the casino. Or the quiet desperation clawing at him from the inside.
Darcy didn’t ask.
Not tonight.
Because Arthur was here. And alive. And trying .
That would have to be enough.
For now.
⸻
Darcy’s Flat – Late Night
Living Room
The lamp was dimmed low, casting soft golden light across the room. The tea sat cold on the side table now, long forgotten.
Arthur lay stretched out on the couch, head pillowed on Darcy’s lap. One arm hung off the side like a discarded coat sleeve. His eyes fluttered between half-shut and sleep-drowsy, chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of someone too tired to think but too wired to rest.
Darcy sat quiet and still, a wool blanket draped over Arthur’s legs. His fingers carded gently through the long locks at the top of Arthur’s undercut, stroking from nape to crown in long, languid motions. Sometimes he paused to scratch lightly over the soft fuzz at the sides—just how Arthur liked.
Arthur let out a low hum of contentment, one hand twitching like a dog dreaming.
“You alright, puppy?” Darcy asked softly, voice a hush in the dark.
Arthur murmured something incoherent.
Darcy smiled faintly. “Thought so.”
He kept petting him. Slow. Steady.
Every so often Arthur shifted, adjusting against Darcy’s thighs, burying closer—seeking something wordless. Something he didn’t know how to ask for.
John’s voice echoed faintly in Darcy’s head, from some afternoon weeks ago, pint in hand and grinning like a devil.
“If Darcy were a woman, I’d bury my face in those thighs and never come up for air.”
Tommy had rolled his eyes. Arthur had laughed awkwardly and walked off to light a cigarette.
Darcy had just flushed and sipped his tea.
But now—Arthur lay there like those very thighs were his only lifeline. And Darcy?
He just kept stroking his hair, quiet and steady. Like anchoring a man in a storm.
And for a while, Arthur breathed easy.
No ghosts.
No father.
No shame.
Just this: warmth, softness, and the only hands that had ever held him gently.
⸻
Darcy’s Flat – Late Night
Living Room
Arthur sat up slowly, dragging the blanket off his lap. Darcy shifted to make room, his fingers leaving Arthur’s hair reluctantly.
“You alright?” Darcy asked, soft, watching him as Arthur rubbed his face.
Arthur nodded, already reaching for his boots. “Yeah. Just remembered—Tommy asked me to run an errand tonight. Shouldn’t take long.”
Darcy tilted his head. “You want me to pack you some tea for the road?”
Arthur smiled faintly. “Nah. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Darcy nodded. Didn’t press. He never did when it came to business —Tommy’s or otherwise. That was their unspoken rule.
Arthur stood, adjusting his coat, avoiding eye contact a little too well.
Darcy watched him from the couch. “Be safe, puppy.”
Arthur hesitated in the doorway.
Then turned and leaned down, kissed Darcy’s hair—a soft press, so fleeting it almost didn’t happen.
And then he was gone.
⸻
Shelby Betting Shop – Twenty Minutes Later
Back Office
The shop was closed, dark. Arthur slipped in with practiced ease, heading straight for the safe. He knew the combination—of course he did. He helped run the place.
The weight of it all settled in his chest as he pulled out the stack of notes—precisely five hundred pounds.
He held it in both hands for a long second. He could still turn back. Put it back.
But that boy inside him—the one still waiting for his da to clap him on the shoulder and say I’m proud of you —spoke louder than sense.
He tucked the money into his coat and left.
⸻
Warehouse Boxing Gym – Nearly Midnight
The place smelled like sweat and sour beer. A few diehards still lingered near the ring, but Arthur Sr. was alone in the corner, smoking, feet kicked up on a broken crate.
“Was startin’ to think you’d changed your mind,” he said as Arthur approached.
Arthur pulled the envelope from his coat and handed it over without a word.
Arthur Sr.’s grin widened. He opened it, flipped through the notes, then slapped Arthur’s arm with mock affection.
“Knew I could count on you. With this kind of start-up, we’ll be printing money in no time.”
Arthur nodded stiffly. “You’ll let me help, right? When it gets goin’? I want in.”
“’Course,” his da said, already pocketing the cash. “You’ve got a head for business now. Just like your brothers.”
Arthur flinched.
Then, quieter: “Don’t say anything to Tommy. He’ll want in.”
Arthur Sr. winked. “My lips are sealed, lad. This is our thing. I’ll let you know the details meet me here tomorrow afternoon”
Arthur nodded and stood there a moment too long—like he was waiting for something more. A thank you. A pat on the back. Anything.
But it didn’t come.
So he left.
⸻
Darcy’s Flat – Just Past Midnight
Darcy was curled up on the couch, robe still on, book closed in his lap. He looked up as Arthur re-entered, his expression softening at the sight of him.
“Welcome back,” Darcy said, voice warm.
Arthur kicked off his boots, shrugged off his coat, and sat beside him again.
Darcy didn’t ask.
Arthur didn’t offer.
But when Darcy shifted, pulled him into his side, Arthur let himself be held.
And for a little while, it almost felt like he hadn’t just given a piece of himself away.
⸻
Darcy’s Flat – Morning Light
Kitchen / Living Room
The sun peeked through the curtains, casting pale strips of gold over the hardwood floor. It was quiet, save for the faint clatter of crockery and the gentle hiss of a pan on the hob.
Arthur stirred on the couch, blinking against the soft light.
For a second, he didn’t move.
The blanket was draped over him again. His boots were neatly placed by the door— Darcy’s doing, obviously. His jacket had been folded across the back of a chair. Everything smelled faintly of lavender and tea leaves.
Then he heard it.
Soft humming.
Coming from the kitchen.
Darcy.
Arthur turned his head, groggy, disoriented—but drawn to the sound like a compass to north.
Darcy stood barefoot, robe cinched at the waist, sleeves rolled up. He was flipping something in a pan— eggs , maybe, or bread. A kettle boiled gently beside him, and the familiar scent of tea leaves and honey curled into the room.
Arthur sat up slowly, rubbing his face.
Darcy didn’t turn. “You want your usual, puppy?”
Arthur’s throat tightened. He didn’t know what to say.
Darcy glanced over his shoulder with a soft smile. “You always make that same face when I say it. Like you’re surprised you still have someone who remembers what you like.”
Arthur opened his mouth.
Then shut it again.
Darcy just poured the tea.
“Milk, no sugar,” he said quietly. “Unless last night rattled your taste for it.”
Arthur stood, slow and stiff, still trying to orient himself in a world that hadn’t kicked him in the ribs the moment he opened his eyes. He shuffled into the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe.
Darcy handed him a mug.
Their fingers brushed.
Arthur stared at him for a long, quiet beat.
“Thanks,” he said finally, his voice hoarse from sleep and smoke and unshed words.
Darcy nodded. “You slept better last night than I’ve seen you sleep in months.”
Arthur sipped his tea. It was perfect.
He didn’t say anything else.
But he kept watching Darcy. Like he was trying to memorize the way he moved, the sound of his voice, the gentle grace of someone who never made him feel less than .
Darcy set a plate down on the table: eggs, toast, a few slices of tomato—simple, but warm.
“Eat,” he said softly. “Before you get pulled back into whatever storm Tommy’s bracing for.”
Arthur sat down.
Still staring.
Because he didn’t know what he’d do without him.
But he also didn’t know how to say that.
So he just said, “You didn’t have to do all this.”
Darcy’s smile was soft. “I know. ”
⸻
Later That Morning
Boxing Gym – Warehouse District
Arthur pushed the door open with purpose. The same stink of sweat and dust filled his nose, but his eyes were sharper now—less dazzled. He scanned the gym.
No Arthur Sr.
Just a few young men sparring. A bag swinging idly. Harris, the old hand who ran the place, leaned against the ropes chewing the end of a matchstick.
“You seen my da?” Arthur asked.
Harris raised an eyebrow. “Your da? You mean that loudmouth who came through a few nights back talkin’ about casinos?”
Arthur stiffened. “Yeah.”
Harris snorted. “Left early this morning. Said somethin’ about taking the next big opportunity south. ”
Arthur’s blood ran cold. “Did he leave anything?”
“Only dust, lad.” Harris’s smirk faded as Arthur turned on his heel and stormed out.
⸻
New Street Station – Nearly Noon
Platform 3
Arthur caught sight of him just as the whistle blew—Arthur Sr., coat on, bag in hand, pacing near the train like he had nothing in the world to regret.
Arthur moved fast, boots thudding on stone, cutting across the crowd.
“ Oi! ” he barked. “You think you can take the money and fuck off again?!”
Arthur Sr. turned just in time for his son to shove him hard against the wall beside the station house.
“You lied ,” Arthur growled. “There’s no casino. There’s no contact . You played me.”
Arthur Sr. smirked like he’d won. “Took you long enough, lad.”
Arthur shoved him again. “You said I could help. That it was ours.”
“You really think you’re cut for that kind of business?” Sr. sneered. “Face it—you’re not Tommy. You’re muscle. You always were.”
Arthur’s jaw clenched. His fists shook.
“I gave you everything I had.”
Arthur Sr. stepped close—too close.
And in a blur, he pinned Arthur against the wall, forearm across his chest.
Arthur gasped, struggling, caught off guard by the strength he still had.
“You got your mother’s bleeding heart,” Sr. hissed. “Too soft. That boy you lay your head on—he’s why you’ll never be more than second best.”
Arthur’s eyes burned.
But he didn’t fight back.
He wanted to.
He didn’t.
The train gave another shriek, louder this time.
Sr. stepped back with a smirk, brushing off his coat.
“You’ll thank me someday,” he muttered. “Men like me don’t raise sons. We leave ‘em something to chase.”
And with that, he turned and boarded the train.
Arthur stood frozen, breathing hard, fists still clenched, knuckles white.
As the train pulled away, he stared down the track long after it had gone.
He wasn’t angry anymore.
He was empty.
And worse than that—
He had to walk back into Darcy’s flat.
And pretend he hadn’t just sold his soul to a ghost.
⸻
That Night
Abandoned Boxing Gym – After Dark
The place was nearly empty now.
The last bags had been packed, gloves boxed up, mats rolled away. Harris had left the keys behind on the ring’s edge like some final act of resignation.
Arthur stumbled through the open door, reeking of whiskey, his eyes glassy and rimmed red. His coat hung off one shoulder, boots dragging. He didn’t even know how long he’d been drinking—only that the ache in his chest had gone from sharp to dull to unbearable.
There was no one here to stop him.
He had come there to fight someone, anyone, but now there was no one but himself to fight.
He found the old wooden stool. The one that always creaked when you stood on it too fast.
He tied the rope slow, careful despite the tremor in his hands. Threw it over the low beam above the old sparring corner.
Tightened the knot. Checked it twice.
He climbed the stool, breath hitching.
He didn’t cry. Not yet.
He just stood there.
The world went quiet.
He whispered, like a child, “I’m sorry.”
And then he stepped off—
CRACK.
The rope snapped. A sharp jerk, a slam of his back into the ground, the stool clattering sideways.
Arthur lay on the cold floor, gasping, stunned, wind knocked from his lungs. His shoulder throbbed. His neck burned. But he was alive.
And then—
“ ARTHUR?! ”
The front doors slammed open.
Darcy.
Darcy, running , his robe flapping under his coat, boots untied, breath ragged with panic. A young Peaky boy had found him at his flat, said Arthur was drinking himself sick , that he’d been seen heading to the gym.
Darcy had run the whole way.
And when he saw the broken rope, the bruises already rising on Arthur’s neck, he screamed.
“ NO—no, no, no, not again— ”
He dropped to his knees beside him, grabbing Arthur’s face with trembling hands. “Look at me, Arthur— look at me! ”
Arthur blinked, dazed. “Darce…?”
Darcy sobbed. Real sobs. Ugly, wrenching ones. He cradled Arthur against his chest, rocking him slightly, as if he could hold the pieces together by sheer force of will.
“You promised me,” he choked out. “You fucking promised —not again, not like last time—”
Arthur mumbled, “Didn’t want you to find me…”
Darcy pressed his forehead to Arthur’s. “You don’t get to not want me , Arthur Shelby. You don’t get to go without saying goodbye.”
Arthur’s voice broke. “I gave him the money.”
Darcy’s breath hitched.
Arthur wept, finally. Quiet, broken sobs that wracked his chest. “I gave it to him, and he left anyway. Said I wasn’t enough. I just wanted— I just wanted him to say he was proud of me. ”
Darcy held him tighter. “ Fuck him. He was never a father. He never deserved you.”
Arthur trembled in his arms like a wounded animal.
Darcy stroked his hair, whispering over and over, “You’re here. You’re still here. That’s all that matters.”
He kissed Arthur’s temple through tangled hair and tears.
And Arthur—tired, broken, alive —let himself be held.
Because somehow, again, Darcy had found him just in time.
⸻
Darcy’s Flat – Late Night
Bathroom
The gaslight flickered softly above the clawfoot tub, casting long shadows against the tiled walls. The water was warm, steaming gently. Lavender oil swirled faintly on the surface.
Arthur sat with his back against the curve of the tub, his arms limp on the rim, eyes glassy from exhaustion and shame. His hair was wet, his chest dotted with bruises from the fall. His neck was ringed faintly red where the rope had bitten in.
Darcy knelt beside the tub, sleeves rolled, careful hands gliding a damp cloth over Arthur’s shoulder, across his collarbone, down his arm. Every touch gentle. No rush. No questions.
Just care.
Arthur watched him.
The rise and fall of his breath. The steady rhythm of his hands.
Then, softly—barely above a whisper:
“Why do you stay?”
Darcy froze.
His hand lingered at Arthur’s wrist. He didn’t look up right away.
Arthur’s voice cracked. “You patch me up. You feed me. You hold me when I break and act like I’m not a burden. But I am.”
Darcy finally met his eyes.
“Don’t say that.”
Arthur blinked. “Then tell me. Why? Why me ?”
Darcy set the cloth aside, slowly. Then he reached up, brushing wet strands of hair back from Arthur’s forehead, fingers tender.
“Because I love you, Arthur.”
Arthur stared at him.
Darcy didn’t falter.
“I’ve loved you since before the war. When you beat the shit out of Greg Morris for making fun of me. When you let me sleep in your bed when my da got too loud at my house. When you said nothing, but always fought my fights for me.”
Arthur’s throat worked around a word he couldn’t form.
Darcy cupped his cheek. “You don’t have to love me back. Not yet….Maybe not ever. But that’s why I stay. Because I love you. All the broken, quiet, stormy you. ”
Arthur’s mouth trembled.
He let out a breath that cracked in the middle and leaned forward—just enough to press his forehead to Darcy’s.
Darcy didn’t move.
Didn’t ask for more.
He just let him rest there. Soaked in steam and silence and the kind of love that doesn’t demand anything in return.
Arthur whispered, voice wet and fragile:
“I don’t know how to be loved.”
Darcy smiled, soft and sad. “Then let me show you.”
And in the glow of the gaslight, surrounded by the scent of lavender and the hush of running water, Arthur let him.
For the first time—he let him.
_____
The tub water had gone tepid now, but neither of them moved.
Arthur’s forehead rested against Darcy’s, eyes shut like he was trying to remember what breathing felt like. The faint scent of lavender still clung to the air, warm and calming.
Darcy’s fingers traced a slow line down the side of Arthur’s face—over the scrape on his cheekbone, along the faint stubble of his jaw. His touch was reverent. Gentle like a prayer.
And then, with a soft hum in his chest, Darcy leaned in and pressed a delicate kiss to the tip of Arthur’s nose.
“Puppy,” he whispered.
A pet name. A tether. A reminder that no matter how storm-tossed Arthur felt, he wasn’t alone.
Arthur opened his eyes slowly. Bloodshot. Red-rimmed. But clear.
For a second, he just looked at Darcy.
Really looked.
At the plump softness of his mouth, at the kindness carved into every corner of his face. At the boy who had carried his body off the battlefield more than once and never asked for anything but this— presence. Permission. Love.
Arthur’s heart thudded loud in his ears.
And maybe it was the leftover whiskey softening the edges of fear.
Maybe it was the stillness.
Or maybe he just couldn’t take not knowing anymore.
He leaned in.
And kissed him.
Clumsy. A little too fast. Uncertain.
But real.
Darcy froze for half a second—not because he didn’t want it, but because he’d never let himself believe Arthur could .
Then his hand came up, cupped the back of Arthur’s neck, and he kissed him back—slow, tender, like they had all the time in the world.
Arthur pulled back first.
His breath hitched.
Darcy smiled, just barely.
“You’ll hate yourself in the morning, won’t you?” he asked, not unkind.
Arthur shook his head. “No. I’ll just… forget I had the courage.”
Darcy’s smile softened.
“Then I’ll remember it for you.”
Arthur didn’t say anything after that.
But he let Darcy wrap a towel around him.
He let himself be dried, clothed, and guided to bed like a man half-asleep.
And when Darcy curled up behind him, arm over his waist, heartbeat against his back—
Arthur didn’t pull away.
⸻
Darcy’s Flat – Morning Light
The curtains were drawn partway, soft daylight filtering through linen and casting golden beams across the bedroom. The air was still and warm, heavy with the scent of chamomile, lavender, and old wood.
Arthur groaned low in his throat, one arm flopping blindly toward the nightstand.
A glass of water sat waiting.
Two aspirin beside it.
Of course.
He pushed himself upright slowly—head pounding, mouth dry, stomach hollow and queasy. He rubbed at his face like he could scrub away the fog, blinking toward the figure sitting at the edge of the bed.
Darcy.
Dressed in his soft morning robe, one leg tucked beneath him, hands resting in his lap. Watching Arthur with calm, tired eyes.
“You’re alive,” Darcy murmured, voice like warm honey. “That’s a start.”
Arthur tried to answer, but it came out a groan.
Darcy smiled, faint but fond. “Aspirin’s there. Water too.”
Arthur obeyed without speaking, taking the pills and drinking deep. His hand trembled slightly. His whole body ached.
He tried to piece it together—last night was a blur. He remembered drinking. The gym. Darcy’s voice, panicked. Shame, rope, steam. A bath. A dream? A kiss?
No. That couldn’t be right.
He looked at Darcy again. Searched his face. But Darcy didn’t offer anything except that same unreadable gentleness.
Arthur let out a shaky breath.
And then—slowly, like a man surrendering to gravity—he shifted toward Darcy, leaned forward, and buried his face in Darcy’s soft stomach. Arms curling around his waist. Curling in like a dog seeking warmth at a hearth.
Darcy didn’t move for a moment.
Then his fingers found Arthur’s hair, combing through it softly, stroking from the nape to the crown like he had so many times before.
Arthur’s voice was muffled. “He took the money. Lied. Said I wasn’t enough.”
Darcy closed his eyes, breathing through the ache of it. “You are enough.”
Arthur tightened his hold around him. “I don’t remember everything.”
“I know,” Darcy whispered.
Arthur shuddered.
Darcy leaned down, lips brushing the top of his head.
“You don’t need to remember, puppy,” he said gently. “You just need to stay. ”
And Arthur held him tighter.
Because even if he didn’t remember the kiss—he remembered the feeling.
Safe.
⸻
Darcy’s Flat – Late Morning
The kettle hissed softly on the hob. Eggs sizzled in a cast iron pan, the smell of butter and toast curling through the flat like a warm blanket.
Darcy moved in that quiet, efficient way he always did—barefoot, robe cinched, sleeves rolled. There was a rhythm to it, familiar and comforting, as if his very presence could settle the room.
In the living room, Arthur sat hunched on the couch, a blanket draped over his shoulders. One boot was on, the other lay forgotten by his foot. His head was in his hands, elbows braced on his knees, the quiet thunk of a hangover pounding behind his eyes.
He’d tried to remember.
Fragments swirled in and out. The gym. The rope. The rope breaking. Darcy’s voice— screaming his name. Steam. Lavender. A bath. Maybe a kiss?
He wasn’t sure.
All he knew was that when he woke, there was water, aspirin, and the familiar scent of tea. He hadn’t woken up alone. That counted for something.
He looked toward the kitchen.
Darcy stood at the counter, humming softly under his breath. That same quiet hum Arthur always pretended not to notice. Something old. Something gentle.
Arthur swallowed thickly.
“Did I…” He paused, rubbed his face. “Did I say anything stupid last night?”
Darcy didn’t look over right away. He flipped the eggs, then reached for the tea tin.
“You said a lot of things, Arthur,” he said evenly. “Not sure how much you remember.”
Arthur winced. “I remember drinkin’. Not much after that.”
Darcy smiled softly—more to himself than to Arthur.
“That’s alright,” he murmured, pouring hot water into a waiting cup.
Arthur leaned back, groaning, the blanket slipping from one shoulder.
“Did I try to kiss you?”
Darcy set the cup down on the counter gently. “Why would you ask that?”
Arthur stared up at the ceiling, cheeks going red beneath the stubble. “Dunno. Just… feel like I might’ve. Dreamt it, maybe.”
Darcy turned slowly, two plates in hand. Eggs, toast, fried tomato. He brought them over, setting one in front of Arthur and the other on the table nearby.
He ruffled Arthur’s hair lightly on his way back to the kitchen. “If it was a dream,” he said over his shoulder, “it was a sweet one.”
Arthur blinked.
Then looked down at the plate in front of him.
Everything was perfect. The eggs were done just how he liked. Tea steaming beside it, milk no sugar. The tomato sliced, seared, not mushy.
Darcy remembered.
Arthur picked up his fork slowly. “Thanks.”
Darcy just nodded, back to tidying up the kitchen.
Neither of them said more for a while.
But Arthur kept glancing over his shoulder.
Because dream or not—he wasn’t sure he wanted to forget.
⸻