Chapter Text
Garrison Pub, 1913
The Garrison smelled of smoke, stale beer, and men with more scars than stories. Arthur sat at the table, shirt off, arm bleeding from a bottle fight he swore he didn’t start—but Darcy suspected otherwise. He always suspected otherwise.
Darcy’s fingers worked deftly, sewing the gash with the kind of calm he shouldn’t have possessed at sixteen. His brow was knit in focus, lips softly parted as he leaned over Arthur’s arm, whispering soothing things like,
“Nearly done, love,” and “You’re alright.”
Arthur grunted, face twisted. “Jesus Christ, Darce, can you not talk like that while jabbing a needle in me?”
Darcy just smiled faintly. “Would you rather I sing?”
Arthur scowled but didn’t protest further.
Unseen beneath the table, nestled between the legs of old barstools, Finn Shelby , six years old, curled up like a kitten with wide, fascinated eyes. No one had noticed him slip in. He wasn’t supposed to be there, but he always ended up where the older boys were. His small hands clutched the edge of the bench above, peeking just enough to watch Darcy work.
The blood didn’t bother him. But the gentleness? That was something else. In a house of fists and hollering, Darcy’s softness glowed like candlelight in a storm.
Darcy tied off the last stitch, snipped the thread with teeth that were just a little too perfect for a boy raised in Small Heath, and pressed a cloth to the wound.
“There. All patched, my brave soldier,” he teased, wiping Arthur’s brow. “Now no more brawls this week, promise?”
Arthur mumbled something that sounded vaguely like “Piss off” but his face was pink, ears red.
From beneath the table, Finn whispered, “Why don’t you ever yell?”
Darcy blinked. “Finny?”
Arthur looked under the table. “Bloody hell, he’s been under there the whole time?”
Darcy smiled, crouching down till he was eye level with the boy, careful not to startle him. “Did I scare you, sweetpea?”
Finn shook his head. “Just wonderin’. Tommy yells. John too. Everyone yells.”
Darcy reached forward and gently brushed a hand through Finn’s messy hair. “Because I remember what it’s like to be scared of loud voices.”
Finn’s brow furrowed like he didn’t fully understand but he nodded anyway.
Darcy leaned closer, whispering, “Besides, I save yelling for emergencies—like if someone finishes the jam without replacing it.”
Finn grinned, giggling softly.
Arthur rolled his eyes, watching the two of them. “You spoil the boy.”
Darcy didn’t look up as he murmured, “Someone’s got to.”
⸻
France & Birmingham, 1916
The rain never stopped.
It soaked through the wool of Darcy’s uniform, crept into his boots, and kissed the edges of the letters he kept folded inside his breast pocket— one from Ada , two from Polly , four from Finn.
The boy always wrote the most.
Darcy hunched beneath the edge of a ruined wall, crouched beside a lantern that flickered like it might go out at any second. His fingers, dirt-stained and trembling from the cold, held a stub of a pencil as he scribbled.
“My darling Finny,”
“Another letter, can you believe it? I’ve read yours three times. You write better than Tommy already—don’t tell him I said that.”
“We’ve had more rain than I thought the world could hold. The mud comes up to my knees in places, and I’ve seen more rats than blokes lately. One of ‘em stole my biscuit right out of my pocket, cheeky devil. I called him Arthur.”
Darcy paused, grinning faintly. His hands ached. His ribs, still healing from a fall in a shellhole, throbbed. But thinking of Finn made the ache feel like nothing.
“John tried to fish out the rat. Said he wanted a pet. Got bit for his trouble. I patched him up, of course. He’s still sulking.”
“I found a feather today—blue, like the sky used to be. I’ll send it to you when I can. You can pretend it’s from a dragon, if you like. A Shelby dragon, brave and kind.”
“Be good for Polly. And don’t forget to feed the birds. I love you more than sunshine.”
“Always,
Darcy”
⸻
Birmingham
Late evening, same week
Finn sat on the narrow bed he shared with John when he was home, legs curled up, a chipped enamel mug of cocoa going cold on the floor. The fire had burned low. Shadows danced on the wallpaper.
In his hands, folded so carefully it looked like a holy thing, was Darcy’s letter .
He’d already read it twice. A third time now, lips moving silently with each line. When he got to the part about the feather, he looked over at the windowsill—where a delicate blue feather lay nestled between two old marbles. His dragon feather. It had come last month.
He traced the words “I love you more than sunshine.”
And whispered aloud, “I love you more than cocoa.”
Polly poked her head in just then, arms crossed. “You reading that again, Finn?”
He nodded.
“Alright. But don’t stay up too late.”
Finn waited until she left to lift the pillow beside him and gently tuck Darcy’s letter underneath. There were others there too. All his.
He didn’t have the words to explain why they made him feel safe. Not yet.
But Darcy had never once told him he was too little , or silly, or annoying. Darcy had never once yelled.
⸻
Watery Lane, 1919
The house was too quiet for a Shelby house.
Finn crept down the stairs barefoot, pajama pants brushing the wood with every slow step. He hadn’t meant to wake up, but something— a strange thud, a voice too low, a sob —had pulled him from sleep. The kind that made your chest feel cold before your feet even hit the floor.
From the bottom of the stairs, he heard Tommy’s voice.
“Put him on the couch. Gently. Jesus, look at him—Polly, get me a cloth.”
Finn stepped out just in time to see Darcy being carried in —barely conscious, lip split, cheek purple and swollen, blood soaking through a faded floral nightdress.
Not just any dress.
His mother’s dress.
It was torn at the hem. Streaked with blood. One sleeve hung off his shoulder. His bare legs were scraped raw like he’d been dragged.
Polly gasped when she saw Finn. “Go back to bed, love.”
But Finn didn’t move. Couldn’t. His eyes were locked on Darcy, whose swollen face twisted in a grimace as Tommy laid him down.
Finn had never seen a man in a dress before.
But somehow, that wasn’t what shocked him most.
What shocked him was that it suited him. Not in a silly way, not like a joke. It suited him in a way that made Finn’s chest feel too full, like he’d swallowed his heart whole.
Even bloody and bruised, Darcy looked more like himself than he ever had.
Tommy stood, shirt stained red. “His dad did it. Came home early. Caught him.”
“Where’s Mae?” Polly asked quietly, already pressing cloth to Darcy’s temple.
Tommy looked down. “She’s gone.”
Polly stopped moving.
“Protected him,” Tommy said. “Like she always did.”
Finn didn’t understand, not fully. But he knew death. And he knew grief. And he knew the way Darcy whimpered softly in his sleep, like a kicked dog , curling into himself as Polly covered him with a blanket.
Finn stepped forward slowly, drawn like the tide.
Polly tried to stop him. “Finn—”
But Tommy held out a hand, stopping her.
Finn reached the couch, crouched down next to it. His fingers hovered above the edge of the blanket before he finally touched Darcy’s hand . Cold. Fragile. Barely responsive.
He whispered, “You still look beautiful.”
Darcy didn’t stir. But the corner of his lip twitched. Just barely.
Polly’s eyes welled.
Tommy looked away.
Finn stood and looked up at his older brother. “Can I… can I stay with him tonight?”
Tommy nodded, voice thick. “Yeah, lad. Yeah.”
That night, Finn didn’t sleep. He sat beside the couch the whole time, one hand holding Darcy’s under the quilt. And when dawn bled pale through the curtains, Finn’s eyes were still open, watching every breath Darcy took.
He never forgot the sight.
Never forgot the dress.
Never forgot the way his heart cracked open and didn’t close again.
⸻
Summer, 1922
“Come on, lad, stop dragging your feet,” Ada called over her shoulder, her heels clicking against the pavement. She looked over her shoulder, cigarette bobbing in her mouth as she smirked.
Finn trudged behind her, two shopping bags already in hand , and another likely on the way. “You said this would be quick.”
“Darling, it’s dress shopping,” Polly chimed in from beside her, looping her arm through Darcy’s. “Quick doesn’t exist when lace is involved.”
Finn groaned. “I thought I was gonna be watchin’ the races with Johnny.”
Polly didn’t even turn. “Johnny’s useless with taste. And we need a strong lad to carry the parcels. Consider it training for married life.”
Finn flushed. “I’m fourteen.”
Ada winked. “Exactly. Learn now or suffer later.”
But Finn wasn’t paying much attention anymore—not really. His eyes kept drifting to Darcy , walking between Polly and Ada like a ghost made warm again. It had been three years since that night. Three years since the bruises. Three years since the blood and the torn nightdress.
And now… Darcy was smiling.
Nervous. Shy. But smiling.
He wore trousers and a loose cream blouse that fluttered in the breeze, with a little scarf tied around his neck. He looked soft, but not broken. Like the pieces had been gathered and sewn back together with gold thread.
They passed a small boutique with lace gloves in the window and a hat stand that looked like something from a dream. Polly stopped short.
“This one,” she declared.
Darcy hesitated. “Are you sure—?”
Ada squeezed his arm. “Darce, if you don’t try something on soon, Polly’s gonna end up throwing you in the dressing room herself.”
Finn stood awkwardly at the door, arms crossed, as the three of them swept inside like they owned the place. The bell above jingled, and Finn followed, gaze flicking around at silk and velvet and mannequins in frilly things he couldn’t even name.
He didn’t know where to look.
He tried very hard not to look at Darcy.
But then—
“Finny?” Darcy peeked around the dressing room curtain a few minutes later, holding up a dress. A deep navy velvet, delicate lace at the cuffs. “Can you hold this for me while I try the other one?”
Finn’s hands moved before his brain caught up.
He took it gently, trying not to wrinkle it, but his fingers trembled just a little.
He looked at Darcy, really looked at him, as he disappeared behind the curtain again.
Darcy wasn’t wearing fear anymore.
He wore hope.
And when he stepped out a few minutes later in a muted lavender gown with flutter sleeves and a soft waist, Polly gasped and clapped, and Ada whistled low.
But Finn?
He just stared. Quiet. Mouth slightly open.
Darcy turned to them, smiling shyly. “Well?”
Finn blinked, felt his throat close up, then opened again. “You look…”
He swallowed. Tried again.
“You look like yourself.”
Darcy’s eyes softened, lips parting. “Thank you, Finny.”
Finn looked down quickly, face burning.
Polly, from behind a rack of hats, said nothing.
But she smiled like she knew everything.
⸻
Finn’s 16th Birthday – Garrison Pub, 1924
The Garrison was already full by late afternoon, packed with family and close friends. Tommy had spared no expense—music playing on the gramophone, new tablecloths, even fresh flowers that Polly said were her idea but definitely weren’t .
Finn stood near the bar, pint in hand— his first legal one , technically—and tried not to act like he was looking at the door every five bloody seconds.
“You nervous or just waitin’ for someone?” Isaiah teased, nudging him in the ribs.
“Neither,” Finn said, too quickly.
Isaiah grinned wide, slurping his drink obnoxiously. “It’s cause Darcy’s late, innit?”
Finn didn’t answer. He stared into his pint.
“Darcy always comes. He’ll be here. Maybe he’s curlin’ his hair,” Isaiah joked.
Finn turned to say something—but the words died in his throat.
Because at that exact moment, the doors opened.
And Darcy Sinclair stepped inside.
Every head in the room turned.
He wore a sleek black evening gown , velvet that hugged his slender frame just right. A delicate pearl necklace draped around his pale neck, matching earrings glinting in the amber light. His makeup was flawless— eyes rimmed with shadow, lips like wine , cheeks kissed with rouge. Heels clicked against the floor with each graceful step. His hair was done up in soft waves, a black hat with a netted veil perched delicately above one brow.
For a second, the room didn’t breathe.
Finn forgot what day it was. Forgot where he was. Forgot how to stand.
Darcy’s eyes scanned the room until they landed on Finn, and then he smiled.
And God.
That smile.
It was shy and bold all at once, like he knew what he was doing and didn’t all at the same time.
Isaiah let out a long whistle. “Well, fuck me sideways…”
“Shut up,” Finn said, his voice thin.
Isaiah leaned in, smirking. “So… d’you like blokes in dresses now or what?”
Finn’s jaw clenched. “He’s not a ‘bloke in a dress.’ He’s Darcy.”
Isaiah raised his brows, a little surprised. “Oi, don’t get shirty with me. Just messin’. But you’re lookin at him like you wanna write him bloody poetry or somethin’.”
Finn didn’t answer.
Because Isaiah was right.
Darcy reached them, and up close it was even worse. Or better. Or something. He smelled like vanilla and tea and maybe honey, and his eyes were glittering with nerves under the veil.
“Happy birthday, Finny,” he said, voice soft and sweet and utterly him .
Finn blinked, mouth dry. “Y-you look…”
“Careful,” Darcy teased lightly, brushing a loose curl behind his ear. “Don’t drool too much. It’s your big moment.”
Finn swallowed hard. “You look… perfect.”
Darcy blushed through the powder on his cheeks. “Thank you, love.”
Isaiah let out a low, muttered “Christ,” and slipped away like he was suddenly third-wheeling a moment he shouldn’t have witnessed.
Finn stood there for a second, dumbstruck, as Darcy looked up at him through dark lashes.
“You alright?” Darcy asked.
Finn nodded.
Then said, quieter, “I think I’ve always been.”
⸻
Later that night, Finn’s 16th birthday – 1924
The party had thinned out.
Tommy had long disappeared upstairs with a bottle and a headache, Polly was fussing with Ada about coat check etiquette, and Isaiah had vanished with a girl on each arm like he was auditioning for a jazz number.
The Garrison doors creaked as Darcy stepped out into the cool Birmingham night, the sound of his heels clicking softly against the cobblestone. He wrapped his shawl tighter around his shoulders, the cold biting a bit more now that the music and heat were behind him.
“Oi!”
He turned, startled—but it was only Finn , rushing out after him, breath misting in the air.
Darcy smiled, amused. “Forgot to say goodbye, for a third time?”
Finn shook his head, cheeks already pink. “I’m walkin’ you home.”
Darcy blinked. “You’re what?”
Finn stood straighter. “You heard me. I’m walkin’ you home.”
Darcy laughed gently. “Finny, love, it’s alright. I’ve walked home in worse. Besides, I’ve got this.” He lifted a dainty little clutch that looked like it could hold nothing more than a handkerchief and a dream.
“That bag’s not gonna stop someone with a brick.”
Darcy tilted his head. “Neither are you. You’ve still got jam on your collar.”
Finn flushed and scrubbed at his neck furiously. “I mean it. I—I saw the way some of ‘em looked at you. If someone followed you, if they… if they found out…”
He trailed off, hands fisting in his coat pockets.
Darcy’s teasing smile faded. His eyes softened.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Finn said, fierce now. “You wore a dress. All night. With your chin up and your hair perfect and I swear everyone looked and all I wanted to do was knock their fuckin’ teeth out if they said somethin’.”
Darcy stared at him.
“You looked like you,” Finn said quieter. “And I want you to make it home safe. Every time.”
Darcy’s lip trembled slightly—but he turned it into a smirk, always quick to hide the quake. “You’re a bit too eager, Finny.”
Finn shrugged, stepping closer. “Maybe I am. But I mean it. From now on, every time you dress up like this, I’m walkin’ you home.”
Darcy tilted his head. “And if I dress like this every night?”
“Then I’m walkin’ you home every night.”
They stood there for a long second. Streetlight glinting off Darcy’s earrings. Finn breathing heavier than he should’ve been.
And then Darcy slipped his arm through Finn’s, elegant and easy. “Alright then, Mr. Shelby. Walk me home.”
Finn beamed.
He didn’t let go the whole way there.
⸻
The Garrison, Late 1924
The place was lively tonight. Smoke curled in lazy ribbons above the chandeliers, glasses clinked, laughter rolled through like thunder. Finn stood at the bar, elbow propped casually as Darcy laughed at something Polly said, his voice soft but bright like a bell in fog.
He wore a wine-red satin dress tonight, with a soft little shrug around his shoulders and pearl earrings that swayed every time he tilted his head. He looked radiant. Confident. Whole.
And Finn was still trying to breathe.
“Jesus Christ,” a voice slurred from the far end of the bar. “What’s that tart doin’ here?”
It was loud enough that the people nearby paused.
Darcy turned, blinked once.
Finn’s jaw tensed.
The man stood unsteady, drink in one hand, jaw slack and eyes bloodshot. He had the faded tattoo of a razor on his neck. A Peaky boy. Washed out, drunk, bitter.
He pointed, laughing. “Wait—wait, is that a bloke in a bloody dress? That’s Darcy , innit? Your little poofter Florence Nightingale?”
Silence fell like a hammer.
Darcy stood still, lips parting slightly—but Finn was already moving, hands clenched.
“You got something to say?” Finn snapped, his voice deeper now than it used to be. Stronger.
The man laughed, cocky. “Yeah, I got plenty to—”
CRACK.
It wasn’t Finn who hit him.
It was Arthur.
No warning.
Just a flash of rage and a punch that sent the man’s head into the edge of the bar , blood spraying across the brass rail. Gasps followed. Someone screamed.
“OUTSIDE,” Arthur growled, grabbing the man by his collar.
“No—Arthur, he’s not worth it—” Darcy started, stepping forward—
But Tommy held him back, voice cold and level. “Let him.”
Outside, in the alley, the air turned to thunder.
You could hear it inside—the pound of fists against flesh , the crack of bone. The man tried to fight back once. That was a mistake.
Arthur’s voice roared: “Say it again! Say it to my face, you fuckin’ coward! That man SAVED MY LIFE in France!”
CRACK.
“You don’t get to breathe the same air as him!”
CRACK. CRACK.
By the time Arthur came back in, his knuckles were soaked red, chest heaving, hair wild. No sound came from outside, Arthur’s cap had blood on it. He stormed past everyone, eyes wild, and straight to Darcy.
“Next one that looks at you like that…” Arthur muttered, voice hoarse, “…I’ll cut out their tongue not just their eyes.”
Darcy, eyes wide, nodded slowly.
And then Arthur hugged him. Just once. Quick and tight. Barely more than a second—but it meant more than any apology ever could.
Finn stood to the side, watching, chest tight with something he couldn’t name.
And later, when Darcy slipped his arm into his and whispered, “Walk me home, Finny?”—he didn’t say a word.
He just nodded.
And they left together, under a sky full of quiet stars.
⸻
1925 – A Storm in Small Heath
The storm rolled in fast.
Thunder cracked like artillery over Small Heath, shaking the windows in their frames. The rain came sideways, rattling the panes with the fury of something old and unhealed.
Darcy hadn’t planned for this.
He had lit candles—he always did when storms came. He had his quilt, his tea, his soft music playing from the old gramophone in the corner.
But none of it worked tonight.
Something about the weight of the sky, the specific pitch of the wind, the low whistle of the gusts outside , like screaming down a tunnel—it all reached past the years, past the dresses and the tea and the careful smile he wore like armor.
And it dragged him back.
He didn’t remember crawling into the tub.
Didn’t remember stripping down or turning the taps on cold. All he knew was that he was sitting at the bottom, knees to his chest, shaking like a leaf , soaking wet in a linen slip that clung to his skin.
His hands scrubbed at his arms raw, red, like he could scrub the blood off again.
But the blood wasn’t there.
Not anymore.
Still, he saw it.
And the boy— the one with the blue eyes and the jaw half gone —Darcy saw him, too.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I tried, I—I tried, please, don’t—don’t look at me like that—”
Another crash of thunder.
Darcy screamed. Loud. Wordless. Like the sound had been buried in his chest since France.
And that was when the key turned in the lock.
⸻
Finn had a key.
Darcy had given it to John, who had passed it to Arthur, who’d mentioned it to Tommy—but none of them had come when Polly sent word that Darcy hadn’t shown up today.
So Finn came.
Seventeen now, taller, broader, jaw sharper but eyes still soft where it counted.
He shut the door behind him quick and called out, “Darcy?”
Nothing.
The house was dim. Cold. The gramophone had stopped playing. The kettle was still full.
And from the bathroom, behind a cracked-open door, came the low, panicked whisper of a man stuck between then and now.
Finn pushed it open.
And what he saw—
Darcy in the tub, soaked through, clawing at his arms like they were cursed, whispering to someone who wasn’t there—
It stopped Finn’s breath.
But not his body.
He dropped to his knees beside the tub, careful not to startle him.
“Darcy,” he whispered.
No response.
Darcy’s eyes didn’t see him—only some ghost of a bleeding boy long buried.
So Finn did the only thing he could.
He reached in, gently took hold of Darcy’s wrists, warm palms to freezing skin , and whispered again.
“Darcy. It’s Finny. It’s me. You’re safe. You’re home.”
Darcy flinched at the touch. But he didn’t pull away.
Finn pressed their foreheads together, voice breaking. “Come back, Darce. Please. I need you to come back now.”
Another thunderclap.
Darcy gasped. Like surfacing.
And his hands gripped Finn’s shirt, tight like he was drowning and Finn was the shore.
He sobbed once. Then twice.
Then he buried his face into Finn’s chest and shattered.
Finn held him there in the tub, soaked to the skin, clothes ruined, heart wide open.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
And later—after the storm passed and the candles had all burned low—Darcy lay wrapped in quilts on the couch, trembling hands tucked in Finn’s.
Finn didn’t sleep.
He just kept holding on.
Because someone had to.
⸻
The Morning After – 1925
The storm had passed.
Birmingham was grey and wet, puddles in the street, the sky low and heavy but no longer rumbling. Birds dared a few chirps outside the window, and somewhere down the block, a milk cart clattered along cobblestone.
In the kitchen, the kettle whistled soft and steady.
Darcy stood at the counter, his silk nightshirt clinging still slightly damp , hair pinned back hastily, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He looked fragile but composed— like glass that had been cracked and re-glued overnight.
His hands trembled only slightly as he poured the tea.
Finn sat at the small table, damp curls a mess, still in yesterday’s clothes, watching him like one watches a candle after a blackout.
Darcy didn’t look up when he spoke.
“I’ve got to check in on Tommy,” he said, softly, like it was simply fact. “He doesn’t eat in the mornings unless someone nags him.”
Finn’s brow furrowed. “You’re still going? After last night?”
Darcy stirred honey into his cup, the spoon clinking gently. “Of course I’m still going.”
“You—” Finn stood, the chair legs scraping. “You weren’t even here, Darcy. You were gone. And now you’re just gonna pretend it’s fine and go look after him ?”
Darcy turned then. Slowly. His expression was tired. But kind.
“I check on Tommy every day. Since Grace died.”
“Yeah, I know,” Finn muttered. “Everyone knows. Polly talks about it. John teases you for it. Arthur pretends he doesn’t care but gets twitchy when you’re late.”
Darcy gave a tiny smile. “Then you know why I’m going.”
Finn crossed the room. Gently took the teacup from his hands. Set it down on the counter.
“You nearly rubbed your skin off last night. You were in the tub , Darce. Talking to someone who’s not here. And you think the right thing to do is go knock on Tommy’s door like nothin’ happened?”
Darcy’s breath hitched. His mouth opened—but no words came out.
“You don’t always have to be the one who’s strong,” Finn said quietly. “You don’t have to patch up everybody else just ‘cause you know how.”
Darcy’s eyes welled, just slightly.
“I—I don’t know how to stop.”
Finn reached up, brushing a curl behind Darcy’s ear with a gentleness that made him shiver.
“Then let me help you learn.”
Darcy let out a shaky breath.
And for the first time in a long time, he let himself nod.
⸻
A few hours later Darcy’s house– 1925
Finn stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching Darcy tie the ribbon on a neat paper box with trembling hands. He was dressed modestly this time—blouse, cardigan, trousers, curls pinned back, not a trace of rouge. But he was still pale. Still hollow-eyed from the storm.
“You said you’d rest,” Finn muttered.
Darcy didn’t look up. “I will. After.”
“You need to.”
“I know ,” Darcy said, voice gentle but firm, like he was trying to soothe him and still win the argument. “But if I don’t check in, he won’t eat today.”
Finn stared at him. “You think Tommy fuckin’ Shelby will starve without a lemon scone?”
Darcy finally looked up, a weak smile on his lips. “They’re honey and oat, actually.”
Finn huffed.
Darcy stepped closer, box in hand. “Come with me, then. Make sure I don’t fall over or… dissolve into mist or something delicate and tragic.”
Finn tried not to smile. He failed. “Fine. But I’m drivin’.”
⸻
Arrow House-1925
The drive to Arrow House was quiet. Rain still dripped from the trees like a lullaby, and the wheels rolled smooth over the wet road. Darcy kept one hand tucked between his knees and the other gripping the box.
Finn stole glances at him—his stillness, his quiet. The tremble in his lip when the wind hit just right. But he didn’t push. Not now.
Arrow House appeared over the hill like a stone giant. Cold. Proud. Lonely.
Darcy let out a slow breath. “Looks better in the snow.”
Finn parked by the side steps and hopped out quickly to open Darcy’s door. Darcy gave him a look but allowed it.
As they approached the front door, Darcy hesitated. Not out of fear— out of weariness.
Finn placed a hand on the small of his back.
“I got you.”
Darcy looked at him and smiled.
“I know.”
⸻
Tommy opened the door himself.
That alone said something.
He looked worse than usual—hair a bit mussed, shirt half-buttoned, coat thrown on like a habit. A cigarette burned down to the filter between his fingers.
“Darcy,” he said, eyes flicking to the box. “You baked.”
“I always bake,” Darcy replied softly. “Don’t act surprised.”
Tommy stepped aside. “Come in.”
Darcy walked in like he belonged there. Because in some ways, he did. And Finn followed, hands in his coat pockets, watching as Tommy led Darcy to the sitting room like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Finn stayed back by the door, but he could still hear them.
Darcy set the box on the table.
“You didn’t eat breakfast, did you?”
“I did,” Tommy lied.
“You’re a terrible liar,” Darcy replied.
There was silence. And then:
“I dreamt of her last night,” Tommy murmured.
“I know,” Darcy said.
Finn felt his chest twist.
It wasn’t just about tea and scones.
Darcy came here to hold the pieces together. To anchor what Tommy couldn’t. To remind him that even grief had to eat sometimes.
And Tommy, for all his cold, let him.
⸻
They left an hour later.
The box was empty.
Tommy had walked them to the door.
“Thank you,” he muttered to Darcy, without looking.
Darcy touched his arm briefly, a kiss to the cheek, a warm hug, something Darcy did for all of them. “Don’t be a stranger, love.”
Tommy nodded. Closed the door.
Back in the car, Finn was quiet for a long time. Until he said:
“You really love takin’ care of us, don’t you?”
Darcy turned his head toward him. “Someone has to.”
“You ever let anyone take care of you ?”
Darcy smiled faintly. “I’m learning.”
And Finn, heart full and aching, drove them home slow, like he wanted the road to never end.
⸻
Summer 1926 – Small Heath
It was hot that day.
Not just the weather, but the air—the kind of heat that clung to your skin and made everything feel heavier. John was dead. The betting shop had reopened. Polly was trying to hold it all together. Tommy was running cold and ruthless.
And Finn Shelby was now expected to be a man.
His first day “in charge” of the shop ended not with celebration, but with a woman waiting upstairs , arranged by Polly and the girls—“just a little treat,” they’d said. “Every man deserves his first.”
She had red lipstick and tired eyes. Smelled like cheap perfume and smoke. Called him darlin’ and undressed with a sigh, not a smile.
And when Finn hesitated, breath caught somewhere between confusion and dread, she said:
“Come on, love. Be a man.”
⸻
Afterward, he sat on the edge of the bed. His shirt still half-off. Her body turned away.
He told her he was sorry.
She said nothing.
⸻
Tommy’s Office – That Evening
Tommy didn’t look up from the stack of ledgers.
Finn stood in front of the desk like a schoolboy who’d brought home a bad mark.
“I don’t ever want it like that again, Tom,” Finn said, voice tight. “Not when they don’t even want to do it—except for the money.”
Tommy lit a cigarette, exhaled slow. “Everything’s for the money, Finn.”
“Yeah, I know…” Finn’s hands balled into fists. “But she said, ‘be a man.’”
Tommy looked up at him, dead-eyed. “And were you a man?”
“Yeah…” Finn hesitated. “But then I apologized after. She looked so… tired.”
Tommy stood now, voice cold. “She was right. You do need to be a fucking man. People get tired, Finn. You think I go ‘round apologizing to factory girls who clock in with bags under their eyes? You think I say sorry to the lads I send off to die with a bullet in their pocket and a pound in their boot?”
He leaned in. “There’s an empty space here. John’s space. And it needs to be filled. So be a fucking man.”
⸻
Later That Night – Darcy’s House
Darcy answered the door in his dressing gown, curls damp from the bath, candlelight behind him flickering like something sacred. One look at Finn and the softness dropped from his face.
“Finny?” he whispered. “What happened?”
Finn didn’t speak. Just stepped inside, shoulders shaking as the door clicked shut behind him. He stood in the hallway like he didn’t know where to go next.
Darcy led him gently to the sitting room. Lit a second candle. Poured tea without asking.
They sat in silence.
Then Finn said:
“They paid a girl to fuck me today.”
Darcy’s breath hitched.
Finn went on, voice flat. “She told me to be a man. I was. I didn’t cry. I—I did what I was supposed to. Then I told her sorry after. She looked like she wanted to be anywhere else.”
Darcy reached across and touched his hand.
“Tommy said everything’s for money,” Finn said, staring at the candle. “Said I had to fill John’s space. But I don’t wanna be that kind of man, Darcy.”
Darcy was quiet for a long time.
Then, gently:
“You don’t have to be.”
Finn looked at him—really looked.
“Have you ever… with someone for money?”
Darcy shook his head. “Never. I’ve never slept with anyone I didn’t have a connection with. Not once.”
Finn’s brows drew together. “Why?”
“Because it’s not just… sex, Finny. Not for me. It’s trust . It’s—” Darcy’s voice trembled a bit, but he held steady. “It’s giving someone your body, your soul, your pain. And knowing they won’t drop it.”
Finn swallowed thickly.
“I don’t want it to feel like that again,” he whispered.
Darcy reached out and brushed a curl from Finn’s temple. “Then don’t let it.”
Finn’s eyes burned. “Will it ever feel… better?”
Darcy smiled, sad and sweet.
“Yes,” he whispered. “When it’s love, it always does.”
And for the first time that day, Finn leaned into someone’s arms , not as a man, not as a soldier, not as a brother—
But as a boy still learning how to carry his heart.
And Darcy held him like he’d been waiting to do it for years.
⸻
Darcy’s Sitting Room – 1926, Nightfall
The fire crackled softly. Rain pattered against the windowpane in lazy streaks, not a storm—just the kind that made the whole world feel like it had turned down its volume.
Finn lay stretched out on the couch, his head in Darcy’s lap , long limbs dangling over the edge. His eyes were red-rimmed, not from crying, but from holding too much in.
Darcy sat still, one hand cradling a cup of lukewarm tea, the other gently stroking Finn’s curls , fingertips grazing his scalp in soft, absent circles.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t rush.
And eventually, Finn said, very quietly:
“Darcy… what if I like blokes too?”
Darcy’s fingers paused for a moment. Then resumed, just as gentle.
“Then you like blokes.”
Finn stared at the ceiling. “How’d you know? That you did?”
Darcy took a slow breath.
“I was thirteen.”
Finn blinked. Waited.
“It was summer,” Darcy murmured. “Me and your brothers—John, Arthur, Tommy—we all went swimming in the cut. No shirts, shoes off, trousers rolled. I remember laughing. I remember feeling free.”
His eyes flickered toward the fire, distant.
“And then I looked at John.”
Finn tilted his head just slightly, looking up at him.
“Not in a brotherly way. Not in a friendly way,” Darcy whispered. “But in the way I was told I was supposed to look at girls. And I knew.”
Finn didn’t interrupt.
“I got sick that night,” Darcy said, a soft laugh escaping. “Sick for a week. Thought it was the flu—so did everyone else. But it wasn’t.”
He looked down at Finn, eyes brimming but clear.
“It was fear. It was shame. It was the knowing.”
Finn whispered, “Did anyone else know?”
Darcy nodded slowly. “My mum.”
A long pause.
“She didn’t say a word. Just brought me tea. Sat beside my bed, brushing my hair back, same as I’m doing now.” His fingers ran through Finn’s curls again, slow and sure. “She never said ‘I know,’ never made me say it. She just… loved me through it .”
Finn’s throat bobbed.
“I don’t know what I am yet,” he said, voice so soft it could’ve been mistaken for thought. “But I feel… I don’t know, more when I’m around you.”
Darcy smiled, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye.
“That’s enough for now, Finny.”
Finn closed his eyes. Let out a breath that seemed to have waited years to be exhaled.
And Darcy, with all the patience of someone who had waited his whole life to be seen, kept stroking his hair, whispering nothing but quiet into the hush between them.
⸻
1926 – Darcy’s House, Midnight
Darcy didn’t flinch when the knock came— three times, quick, and then once slow. The Shelby knock.
He opened the door to find Finn , hunched in his coat, collar pulled up, eyes glassy. The cold was biting, but he wasn’t shivering.
He reeked of whiskey and cocaine. And something else— guilt.
Darcy stepped aside. Said nothing.
Finn brushed past him, nearly stumbling. Shrugged off his coat, missed the hook, let it fall to the floor. His fingers were twitching.
He stood in the middle of the sitting room, breathing like he’d run from something.
Darcy closed the door gently behind them. “Did you drive?”
Finn scoffed. “No. Barely fuckin’ walked .”
Darcy walked slowly toward him. “Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“You need—”
“I need you to not tell me I did the right thing,” Finn snapped suddenly, turning to him. His eyes were wide, red. Wild. “Don’t say it was right. Don’t say it was deserved. Don’t say anything they said.”
Darcy stopped just in front of him. Softly: “Alright.”
Finn’s breath caught.
He looked down at his hands, which were still shaking.
“I took his eyes, Darcy.”
Darcy stayed quiet.
“I—I did it like Tommy said. And I thought—if I just followed orders, it’d feel like doing my job. Like… being a man.”
Darcy’s heart broke a little.
“But he screamed,” Finn went on, voice cracking. “He screamed like a fuckin’ animal. And then he begged. And I just… kept going.”
He looked up, eyes swimming. “And I was good at it.”
Darcy reached for him slowly.
Finn stepped into his arms like he’d been waiting to collapse all night.
Darcy held him tight, one hand in his curls, the other gripping his coat. “You were afraid Arthur was dead.”
“I didn’t want him to die.”
“I know.”
“I thought if I did it fast… it’d mean I cared. That it was for something. But I can’t get the sound out of my head, Darcy.”
Darcy swallowed hard. “You’re not made for this.”
“But I have to be.”
Darcy pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes.
“No. You don’t.”
Finn’s jaw clenched. He looked away.
“You’re trying to be what everyone else needs,” Darcy said, voice trembling now. “But what about what you need?”
Finn didn’t answer.
Darcy cupped his cheek, gently. “You’ve been drinking more. Smoking more. I know you’re doing coke again. You think I don’t notice?”
Finn’s face crumpled. He pressed his forehead to Darcy’s shoulder.
“I don’t know how to stop.”
Darcy whispered, “You start by letting someone see you. Really see you.”
Finn didn’t move for a long time.
Then: “Do you see me?”
Darcy kissed the top of his head. “I always have.”
⸻
Arrow House – 1926
The gramophone played slow jazz. The scent of roast lamb and burning candles lingered in the air. Laughter rose and fell in waves around the long mahogany table, glasses clinking, Arthur’s booming laugh echoing through the room as he recounted the night he “rose from the fucking grave.”
Arthur was alive. Luca Changretta was dead.
And for the first time in months—maybe years—the Shelbys were celebrating.
Finn stood near the sideboard, pint in hand, cigarette tucked behind his ear. He was smiling. Looser. Almost okay.
And then Darcy walked in.
The room didn’t stop—but Finn did.
Darcy wore emerald silk , draped like poured light over his figure. Hair curled and pinned, eyes rimmed in soft shadow. His pearls caught the candlelight, and his smile—shy but radiant—lit up his whole face.
He looked… untouchable.
Like he belonged in a ballroom in Vienna, not a house built on blood and secrets.
Finn watched him float across the floor, greeting guests with delicate touches to their arms, soft laughter like windchimes.
And his heart just… hurt.
He didn’t even notice Polly step up beside him until she spoke.
“He does look beautiful tonight.”
Finn startled. “What?”
Polly smirked, drink in hand. “Darcy. You’re starin’, sweetheart.”
Finn flushed, quickly looking away.
“I wasn’t—”
“Oh, please,” she cut him off, sipping her drink. “I’ve seen that look before.”
Finn stared into his glass.
“He’s a man,” he muttered.
Polly’s tone softened. “Yes, love. He is.”
“And I’m not… I don’t know what I am. I mean, I’ve been with girls, and it was fine. But I look at him, and it’s not like that. It’s…” He exhaled. “It’s like I’m a bloody boy again. All soft in the chest.”
Polly set her drink down. “Finn, look at me.”
He did.
“You feel what you feel. The law? Society? They’ll call it unnatural. But tell me—” She leaned in. “What the hell is natural about being a Shelby?”
He blinked.
“I’ve watched men die for less than love. I’ve watched women stay for worse. You look at him like he’s the first thing that’s ever made you feel safe. That’s not wrong.”
Finn’s throat tightened.
“There’s the age gap,” he whispered. “Ten years.”
Polly smiled. “That’s the least of your problems.”
He laughed despite himself.
She softened again. “Does he make you feel like someone worth loving?”
Finn nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
“Then that’s the only question that matters.”
⸻
Later, when Darcy twirled slowly to the music with a tipsy Ada—laughing, radiant, soft— Finn watched with new eyes.
He wasn’t alone anymore in what he felt.
And maybe… just maybe… that meant he could do something about it.
⸻
Arrow House, Later That Night – 1926
The fire crackled low in the sitting room, most guests now either deep in drink or slow in conversation. The party had mellowed to candlelight and soft laughter.
Darcy sat in a velvet chair by the hearth, hands folded neatly in his lap, his wine untouched. His eyes drifted again and again to the hallway—to where Finn had stepped out onto the back patio for air nearly ten minutes ago.
Polly watched him from across the room.
She stood without a word and crossed to him, heels clicking gently.
“Sweetheart,” she said, settling beside him. “You’ve looked like you’re about to faint for the last hour. Talk to me.”
Darcy gave a weak smile. “Just the heat.”
Polly arched a brow. “Try again.”
Darcy sighed, curling a lock of hair behind his ear. “I know what you’re going to say.”
Polly tilted her head. “Do you?”
“I’m not blind, Pol. I know how he looks at me. And I—” He stopped. Took a breath. “He’s just a boy. Still so young. He doesn’t know what he wants. And even if he does, it’s me. A man. A man in dresses. A man with ten years on him and ghosts still clinging to my skin.”
Polly didn’t interrupt.
“I couldn’t live with myself if I gave him something he only thinks he wants,” Darcy whispered. “And then he realizes he doesn’t. Or worse—gets hurt because of me.”
Polly reached over, took his hand.
“Darcy. I’ve watched that boy grow into his father’s name and hate every second of it. And then I watched him look at you like you were the only soft thing he’s ever had.”
Darcy’s eyes burned.
“He’s not a boy anymore,” Polly said gently. “And you are not a sin waiting to happen. You’re someone who’s spent his whole life patching other people up and never once let anyone hold you. Maybe it’s time.”
Darcy blinked fast, a tear slipping down his cheek.
And Polly, never unkind, just squeezed his hand and nodded toward the glass door.
“Go.”
⸻
The Patio – A Few Minutes Later
The air was cool and damp, the sky thick with stars. Finn leaned on the railing, cigarette in hand, eyes fixed on nothing.
He heard the door open. Didn’t look up.
Until the silk of Darcy’s dress rustled faintly beside him.
He turned.
“You alright?” he asked softly.
Darcy nodded. “Needed air.”
They stood there in silence for a while.
Then Finn said, voice low: “Can I ask you somethin’?”
“Of course.”
“Would you dance with me?”
Darcy’s breath hitched.
“Out here?”
“No one’ll see.”
Darcy stared at him for a moment.
And then he smiled. Shy. Beautiful. “Alright, Finny.”
Finn stubbed out his cigarette and stepped closer, one hand at Darcy’s waist, the other gently taking his hand.
Darcy’s breath trembled.
But he didn’t pull away.
They swayed there under the stars, no music but the hum of summer night sounds, their movements slow and unsure—like learning to walk again.
After a long moment, Darcy whispered:
“You’re taller than me now.”
Finn grinned. “Have been for a bit.”
Darcy looked up, eyes wet. “Time flies doesn’t it Finny?”
Finn’s voice dropped.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
Darcy froze.
“You think?”
“I know, ” Finn whispered, forehead resting against Darcy’s. “And I’m not a boy anymore.”
Darcy shut his eyes.
And didn’t say no.
⸻