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It’s a sweet post orgasmic bliss they’re laying in, naked like in the day they came into this world. Not so pure, of course, far from it. Tommy’s smiling - a little thing he doesn’t allow himself in any other situations. But he’s smiling and he’s feeling good and Alfie’s chest is full with pride as he’s the one responsible for that.
He’s precious to look at and especially to hold in his arms. Tommy’s hair is a mess, he didn’t trim it for some time but the peaky cut is still recognizable, now sparkled with some grey splashes on the temples. Body’s covered in sweat, his soft cock lays flat against his hip, mouth is slightly open as he tries to catch his breath. Such a pretty picture.
It becomes rare, the moments like that when they have enough of time to not just do it on a proper bed but to actually enjoy themselves after it. No rush, no threats, no business. Just two men naked in the bedroom doing nothing but breathing.
The moment, of course, is gone when Tommy reaches for a cigarette, puts it between his wet lips. His fingers are slightly shaking when he takes a drag and looks at Alfie through the smoke.
“You’re staring,” he notes, voice hoarse from all the moaning and screaming he did before.
“It’s something new, innit? Get bored from staring at the walls.” Tommy rolls his eyes on that but the smile doesn’t fade. He probably thinks that Alfie is ridiculous. And, perhaps, he is but only after a laid like that and with a man like Tommy, no exceptions.
“We've been doing it for some time, Alfie.” Tommy settles on the pillows, nudging the duvet with his foot. “There’s nothing new.”
“We haven’t done it in your bed, though,” Alfie points out and, yes, this is new. Tommy never let him in his bedroom before in this ridiculously big mansion of his. Always busy, the house is, with Tommy’s ghosts or his family.
“Thought it'd be easier like that.” Tommy gave up on bringing the duvet to cover himself. Alfie hooks the end that is closest to him and pulls the whole thing over both of them. Tommy stretches under it and exhales a sigh of deep relief. “Stay?”
He’s so sleepy, Alfie realises, those dreamy eyes of his are almost closed, cigarette is fading between his lifted fingers. Alfie takes that and presses it in the ashtray. His chest is heavy like it always is in those moments after, but there’s something more than just exhaustion. It’s in his heart, that is beating faster than it should, clenching almost painfully. And at the same time he’s surprisingly calm, stroking Tommy’s hair gently, passing outgrown locks through his fingers. The words are slowly forming in his head, and just as slowly he realises that he may regret saying them out loud, but he also may go mad if he keeps them in his head.
The thing is, Alfie is a man of many languages but no language suits for all the words he wants to say. Simple words, actually, very common words for a human being.
I love you.
Sounds so wrong in English, even in his head. How many people before him said those words to Tommy? There were some, no doubt in that. His family, probably, years ago. His late wife. His kid. Nothing original in that, nothing he hasn’t heard before.
They’re dangerous words for the two of them, Alfie’s aware. He loves danger so he desires to say them even more. But they just ain’t right, aren’t they, not for his Tommy.
Ani ohev ot’h’a?
Closer but not exactly there - Tommy doesn’t know Hebrew that well yet. He knows some words, of course, but mostly curses since he banned any English ones in front of Charlie.
Я люблю тебя?
No, the Russian way of saying it always makes him cringe. Those words belong to his dear mother and her only.
Alfie tries to sort through all the languages he knows in his head but nothing feels right. But he does love Tommy. Why is it so difficult? He grunts, annoyed with the whole thing.
“Alfie,” Tommy calls for him and Alfie looks at him but only now there’s no smile, just a small frown between his eyebrows. “You’re muttering nonsense again.” Yeah, he didn’t notice that.
“Sorry, love, just been thinking, that's all.” He presses a quick kiss to that wrinkle, hoping to smooth it out. Tommy yawns.
“How many languages do you know exactly?” He asks, snuggling closer.
“Don’t know, never count ‘em.” And then the realisation hits him and his heart is beating in his throat again. He feels the sudden urge to say it before Tommy is completely asleep. “You know, too many, actually. But I’m sure that there’s no language that ever existed or ever will be that could hold words, you know, the words that could describe how much I love you.”
Tommy tenses under his embrace and Alfie immediately regrets saying it. Fuck.
“You love me?” Not even a hint of sleepiness in his voice, the bastard, and Alfie is terrified to even lower his gaze to look him in the eye so he looks at the ceiling instead.
“Yeah, I think so, I do.” He says anyway, feeling like a deer in the light of a lantern. “Is it a problem?” His voice comes out too high pitched to his liking and he cringes again, but Tommy doesn’t point at that, even if he had noticed, no doubt.
Tommy doesn’t give him an answer and Alfie thinks that here it is, the moment when he fucked up and lost Tommy Shelby forever. But then, suddenly, Tommy is whispering something, semi-audible, Alfie feels his lips moving against his shoulder.
“I can’t hear you, love,” he says quietly.
“Me mangav tut,” Tommy says in a small voice but then repeats it more steadily. “Me mangav tut, Alfie.”
Alfie has the same relationship with Romani as Tommy with Herbrew, maybe even a better one. He knows more of Tommy’s tongue than Tommy knows of his but those words he never heard before.
Me mangav.
“You want me?” That’s what it means, right? I want.
There’s a small gasp and a small laugh that follows. Tommy shakes his head then nods and Alfie finally lowers his gaze to look at him. He looks ridiculous, that man, hair is more of a mess somehow.
“That’s not what I said. Me mangav tut means I love you.”
“Oh.” If there is a man in this world that could leave Alfie Solomons speechless then it’s Tommy Shelby right here.
“Well,” Tommy says, making himself comfortable again after leaving a small kiss on Alfie’s opened mouth. “I think my language works perfectly for me. But what you said… It’s rather romantic, I'll give you that.” He looks at him and there’s tiny little devils dancing in his eyes. Maybe it’s the lamp light, of course, but Alfie knows a mocking when he sees one.
“You bastard,” he says and slaps Tommy’s shoulder for good measure, earning a laugh at that.
“You’re getting soft,” Tommy says, fixing a duvet on them.
“Yeah, yeah, right. Just an old soft fool Alfie, making his love confessions in the middle of the night. Yeah, don’t mind me.” Alfie’s making himself comfortable as well. “Me mangav tut,” he repeats gently.
And maybe it’s because he doesn’t fully know the language or because it’s Tommy’s voice he’s hearing in his head saying those words, but it sounds just right to him. Not entirely there but pretty close. He did mean what he said previously. No language that ever existed or ever will. But this one may be close, just because it’s Tommy’s.
“Yeah, me mangav tut, Alfie. Me mangav tut.”