For Peter

[bleak_midwinter]

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[bleak_midwinter]

Rules are told in whispers, in harsh words in back alleys and backrooms, especially for people like them. High society has its collars and codes, but in Small Heath people don't have the luxury of any of that. You get what you need from any willing body in desperate moments, leaving people with scuffed knees and fingerprint bruises.

One firm rule, however, is that you do what you're supposed to do. A Dom doesn't get on their knees, a sub doesn't raise a hand. Tommy is not exactly obedient, but there are rules he isn't willing to break for just anything, for fear of losing too much face. So he just doesn't do much. People know he's a Dom, and he certainly did go through the motions before the war. He likes it. It feels good. But he knows, deep down, it might feel just as good to switch to the other side.

To distract from this particular identity crisis, he just works, and works, and ignores the things he's feeling when he sees a beautiful man in a tightly fitted suit make his way through the club the Shelby Company Ltd. has recently acquired. Definitely not a sub.

[anonyreyev]

Definitely not a sub. And yet, when Peter turns his head and steals a look at Tommy, there's the collar.

He makes eye contact, absolutely bold as brass, bats him a wink, and slides into a seat.

[bleak_midwinter]

Jesus. Those rules must be more vague than Tommy thought-- rich, considering the collar, and bold as anything. He casts a look over at Arthur, but he's ordering a bottle of whiskey and is clearly ignoring Tommy.

Fucking hell though, that wink didn't lie, did it?

But he isn't likely to encroach on another Dom's territory. Not where he can see it, of course.

He gets up five minutes later, taking out his cigarettes as he passes by Peter's table. He'll be outside.

[anonyreyev]

Peter waits a minute longer, than gives the man he's visiting with the slip, and comes out to lean in the doorway.

He gets himself out a cigarette while he watches Tommy, takes his measure, and then pads over to greet him, silently, and to hold it up expectantly for a light.

[bleak_midwinter]

His lighter is silver, heavy, engraved. He leans forward to light the cigarette in a gesture that's both intimate and completely routine. No shame in it, if you aren't looking at the other party like Tommy is.

"That's a pretty collar," he murmurs, his accent rough. Is it removable, is the unasked question.

[anonyreyev]

"Thanks. Stole it this morning off a lord's vestibule. His wife might be a little distressed, but honestly- leaving a collar like this just lying around?"

Clicking his tongue, not bothering to hide his own accent- American. He leans in for the light, takes a grateful drag of the cigarette.

"This country, I tell you."

[bleak_midwinter]

He chuckles at that as he slips his lighter back into an inside pocket, taking the opportunity to look closely at Peter's lovely cheekbones, his pretty eyes.

"This country's nobility," he agrees, mildly. "I do hope your fingers haven't been so light in my club, Mister...?"

[anonyreyev]

"Oh no. Is it your club?"

Stepping closer to him. He looks down into Tommy's eyes, bats his lashes.

"I'm afraid I haven't been as polite as one might have wished. I'll have to do better."

And immediately makes a liar of himself by trying to put a brazen hand in Tommy's pocket.

[bleak_midwinter]

Unfortunately for him, Tommy, unlike most club owners, grew up picking pockets as much as he did fights. He grabs his wrist just before he takes anything, and gives him a look.

"They really do do things differently over there, don't they?"

[anonyreyev]

He laughs, and leans in, fully intending to have gotten caught.

"Not that different, from the feel of you. You've got the right idea."

And Peter apparently isn't shy about being a little manhandled in public, even though there's a flutter behind them, even though people definitely notice that he's in someone else's collar.

[bleak_midwinter]

He rubs a thumb slowly over the inside of Peter's wrist, considering him. He's dangerous, and has tricks up his sleeve, and Tommy's sure he's going to try and con him-- but he's magnetic, bold, and unafraid as well.

"Thomas Shelby," he introduces himself as, and raises an eyebrow: and who's he?

[anonyreyev]

"Duke Rose."

He says, hand curling lightly to brush against Tommy's wrist.

"I've heard about you, Mister Shelby."

[bleak_midwinter]

He gives him the smallest of smiles, and tilts his head. He's smoking still, with his free hand, and careful to blow out away from Peter's lovely face.

"Have you, Mister Rose? All good things, I presume." He clearly presumes no such thing.

[bleak_midwinter]

They have another day in London, in which Tommy mostly takes Peter on a walk, and then gets hijacked by business. He trusts Peter will be able to enjoy himself until dinner, and he finds him in his hotel that evening.

Dinner is good. Blowing him is even nicer. He sleeps the same number of hours that night, which he'll still call a win, and in the morning he tells him:

"I ought to be going back to Birmingham today. Will you come?"

[anonyreyev]

"I'll come."

Says Peter, easily, and leans in to give him a grateful kiss.

"But I'll have to collect my things. Spare a trip to my hotel?"

[bleak_midwinter]

"We'll take the car," he agrees, after running a comb through his hair. "Where is it?"

[anonyreyev]

He drapes over him, and gives him directions to a seedier partner town.

Peter bats his eyelases, shamelessly.

[bleak_midwinter]

He drives himself, in London, but the car is big enough that he can pull Peter up against his side-- like a good dom and his very needy sub, out on the town. He throws him an amused look but otherwise doesn't comment as he drives him to, well, something that feels more like home.

He parks the car, knowing already some kid will try and fuck it up. He'll take that risk, as he climbs out with him. He's put that collar back on, and even Tommy has to admit he makes such a fetching picture.

[anonyreyev]

"You wait down here."

Says Peter, for just that reason;

"I'll be ten minutes. My things are already mostly packed."

He's never anywhere for long, is Peter Nureyev.

[bleak_midwinter]

He won't argue with him. Whatever's up there, either Peter doesn't want him to see or he really does want Tommy to stay by his car.

"We've got time," he tells him, as he leans against the door and digs out a cigarette. And he's not difficult to look at, even walking away from him.

[anonyreyev]

He arrives down a few minutes later, with a bag over his shoulder and an evil looking landlady leaning in the door, glaring furiously at him.

"Let's go," says Peter quickly, and comes to take his hand.

[bleak_midwinter]

He lifts the hand to his mouth and kisses it, like Peter is royalty, and a pretty thing to be treasured besides.

"I imagine there's a story there, Peter," he tells him, as he opens the door for him before getting in himself.

[anonyreyev]

"Not as much of one as you'd think. Foreigners, submissives."

He's got two strikes against him, and a kiss to give him in return.

"Drive me away from this terrible place?"

[bleak_midwinter]

"From one terrible place to another," he promises him, as he settles down behind the wheel. He's a good driver, confident, and lets the car go as fast as it can. The windows roll down, and it's a nice day once they get to the countryside.

"Enjoy the fresh air for a spell," he suggests.

[anonyreyev]

"Oh? I don't know a single thing about Birmingham. Have I bitten off more than I can chew?"

He very well might have.