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Tommy wakes with the smell of blood and earth choking him and is out of the bed, and padding silently across the unfamiliar carpet, the last bits of his dream fading behind his eyelids before he remembers he’s not home.
Alfie snores like a train engine, all rumbling baritone.
The bedroom has bookshelves lining the far wall and the embers haven’t fully faded from the fireplace. Tommy grabs the metal poker from the wall and for a moment contemplates smashing the gold framed mirror hanging above the mantel. The solid metal in his hand is grounding, pulling his mind back slowly into his body and the urge passes. The sweat cools on his bare shoulders and he shivers.
His hands are shaking by the time he finds his cigarettes case, shoved in the pockets of his trousers left on the floor. The memory of last night--drunk and laughing with Alfie as they fought to pull his suspenders off feels a thousand miles away.
The smoke curls past his lips and fill his lungs.
Alfie’s voice starts out as a low mummer behind him and then the words start to string together into coherence as he stumbles out of the bed and lumbers on uneven footing. “-by the fireplace there looking just like a ghost yourself-- fuckinghell ‘s cold in here. You want breakfast, I don’t cook Tommy. Oi-” He stops rambling when he catches sight of him.
The slope of his naked shoulders and disheveled hair speaks louder than words.
Alfie meanders closer to get a better look at him. “It’s fucking cold, Tom. Hmm.” He notices the iron poker still curled loosely in his other hand. His voice softens a fraction. “One of those sorts of nights, eh?” He rummages in the closet and pulls out a quilted robe “I am not a doctor mate, but I can tell you-” Here, he wraps the robe around Tommy’s bare shoulders, “It’s not exactly recommended to sleep only three hours a night.” He kneels in front of Tommy’s chair and continues tucking the robe around his exposed skin. “And fuck off with this shit in my house, will you.” He pulls the cigarette from Tommy’s lips and throws it in the fireplace behind him. He scowls back at him challengingly waiting for a reaction.
Tommy slow blinks at him like a reptile and it’s a second or two before the haze in his eyes clears. “Alfie.”
“Yeah, sweetheart. It’s me. Not the queen of fucking England or anything. It’s just me.” He doesn’t break his gaze while he presses his warm hand against Tommy’s, caressing gently while maneuvering the iron poker out of his grasp. Tommy lets him.
“Is just dreams.” Tommy breaks the eye contact and pulls the robe tighter around his shoulders. “No ghosts, this time.”
“We all get em’ Tom. You want eggs? Is about all I can cook but I’ll bloody do it, for you.”
“Yes. Please. You got toast?”
“Have I got toast? He asks. Tommy I haven’t the faintest idea what is in my kitchen.” Aflie stands up, placing his hand on Tommy’s shoulder, leaning in as if he needs the weight to steady himself, but then leaves his hand there a couple seconds longer until Tommy’s hand closes around his, they both draw comfort and reassurance from the simple gesture and then Alfie mutters. “I’ll look for toast.”
