METHOD OF MADNESS ━ 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐲 ¹ (Under editing)

𝒾. 𝒮𝒾𝓍: hop on

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : i only wanna talk to you - the maine

⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

i. six: ❝hop on❞

✵✵✵

Small Heath, Birmingham

MARIANNA SLIPPED INTO Tommy's room like smoke through a crack in the wall, carrying with her the metallic tang of Arthur's blood and the perfume of old soap. She didn't knock, didn't need to. The Shelbys had always left their doors ajar to her, even when their mouths said otherwise. In her hand, a rag, crimson-stiff and damp, which she dropped with deliberate disdain onto his floorboards. It landed with a wet thud, obscene against the silence.

Her eyes, molten with restrained fire, fastened on the man slouched at the edge of his bed. Thomas Shelby sat bent, elbows on his knees, a cigarette burning slow in his hand, his gaze fixed on the scuffed leather of his boots. Smoke curled round his sharp cheekbones like a crown of thorns, shadows pooling beneath his eyes.

"He's asleep," Marianna said, voice low but cutting. "He'll feel the pain, but nothing a good whiskey won't numb."

"Good." Tommy gave a slow nod, the faintest twitch of his jaw. The word came out soft, detached, as though he were blessing the weather, not his brother's survival. He dragged at the cigarette, eyes never leaving the floor. "Have you eaten?"

Marianna's laugh was a sharp snarl, without mirth.

"Stop fucking with me, Thomas." Her hand snapped out to push the door closed behind her. The latch caught, sealing them in together, and for a heartbeat the silence between them thickened into something indecent. She stepped closer, her presence a heat against him though she had the cruelty of winter in her veins. "Why would a copper lay into Arthur like that? Eh? What's the reason?"

"I don't know." Tommy finally lifted his eyes to her. Blue steel, the kind that could slice, and yet he softened it with a sniff of indifference. "With men like him, reasons don't matter. Only the goal."

"You men and your fucking goals." Her lips curled, a half-smile of venom and pity. "Arthur's blood was painting the cobbles, dripping into the cracks of Small Heath, and you sit here like it's—" She leaned in, voice a hiss against his face. "—like it's just another bloody Thursday."

Tommy's chest rose and fell, steady as a drumbeat. Then he spoke, his tone weary but edged, the bite of a man half-daring her to press him further.

"In the war, Marianna, every day was bleeding. Every morning was another man starving. Every night another bastard parched and gasping for air. Every second sat next to death's breath. So yes," he spat, the corner of his mouth curling around smoke, "it's just another bloody Thursday."