Forbidden Afflictions // Alfie Solomons Peaky Blinders

(25) Papers

Freya walked up with Anna, saying goodnight when she separated from the room immediately to the left. It stood directly above the kitchen and was in Freya's opinion, the bigger of the spare rooms. However long it seemed to Freya that those rooms remained empty, it was obvious that they had all stayed before since they all knew which room to borrow. 

Anna and Amado were in the first room, Ben had the smaller room near the library, and Solomon occupied the room beside his. They each seemed to have a designated spot from what Freya could tell.

She had the longest walk down the hall. Since she and Anna stayed behind, she expected Alfie to already be in their room but found it vacant. She didn't dwell on his absence until five minutes turned into fifteen and her eyelids began to grow heavier by the second. She sighed, removing her braid on her way to the hall, and listened for the voice she was searching for.

It didn't take long to find Alfie in Solomon's room, trading his weight between his feet as he found another glass of rum and switched it to his other hand. She gave a gentle knock with her knuckle and peered further inside, startling Solomon slightly as he appeared to be pulling something from his case at the foot of the bed.

"Sorry," she whispered, showing her teeth in a flat, open-mouthed frown. 

Alfie slowly turned toward her and straightened his posture. "Don't be. I was just on my way," he pronounced, stepping away from his cousin. He smiled sleepily at Freya as he came closer and rested his eyes a moment, saying a farewell on the way out. 

Freya hummed with a smile. "You have a good night, Solomon," she said, amused with Alfie's drunken state as he carried himself to bed. 

He looked slightly frazzled, clearly shocked that Freya was still there. "Uh, yeah," he exhaled, chuckling nervously and adverting his gaze as if whatever he was fiddling with in his bag was more important. "You too." His sheepish behavior contrasted dramatically with his earlier insults. She appreciated his bluntness and found his insults to be mere curiosities, but now he seemed uncomfortable and Freya couldn't understand why. 

"Thanks," she said, furrowing her brows and failing to hide the strangeness of it in her voice. Solomon continued to stare at his bag and didn't close his door until she was partially down the lengthy hall that connected their rooms. 

She turned at the soft click of his door and questioned his sudden change in demeanor. Once in Alfie's bed chambers, she shut the door and quirked her eyebrow in Alfie's direction. He was sat on the edge of the bed, sitting on her side as he undid his shoes and slumped himself over at an interesting angle. 

He worked sloppily to remove his shoes before shoving them under the bed. He was bent between his knees and all the blood was throbbing at the top of his head as he did so, relieving a spot of pressure from his spine at the expense of his brain's comfort. As he stretched and simmered in the succor his rum brought him, Freya's gaze caressed the indent of his spine beneath his shirt layers. She watched how his breathing was easy and rhythmic and how the end of his dress shirt had slipped from his waistband, revealing a tuft of cloth and a patch of skin. 

Staring only as long as Alfie's eyes were closed, she spoke after a few beats of silence. "Why does Solomon look like I'm holding his entire family for ransom?"

"Are you?" Alfie asked, giggling as he slowly lifted himself upright and batted his sleepy eyes at the woman across from him. She had her collarbone exposed and her hair was fraying around her hairline and hollowed cheeks as it was unraveled from its earlier braid. He scanned her peppered skin and let out a soft sigh, appreciating her sympathy and understanding of his family and their unsuspected pop-in. 

"Maybe I am," she tittered, sliding her fingers through her damp hair and nearing Alfie on the bed. "Can I ask you something?" 

She yawned and stood before him, turning her chin toward her chest, reaching her fingers for his head, and gliding her hands through his hair. His shoulders were slumped lazily, feeling very little of her affection as most of his nerves were numbed with alcohol. He didn't dispel her or shudder and she didn't second guess the origin of her sentiment. There didn't seem to be a question of want or need between them. Neither of them felt insecure or used and their minds seemed to be at ease.