Chapter Text
Sean Rafferty’s first encounter with the Guinness family was one of his earliest memories. Standing out on the rain-soaked street, he had clung to his mother’s skirts and gazed up at the tall iron gate that housed the famous brewery. He remembered how cold his feet felt, but he must not abandon his post by her side. Not until he saw the brim of his father’s weather-beaten cap as he slipped through the crowd of workers, clocking off their shift. His dear old father had scooped him up and tossed him over his shoulder.
“Fine man, Mr Guinness,” he had said, kissing his mother’s cheek.
He didn’t understand it at the time, but his father had been promoted to foreman. And thus, on a miserable, entirely insignificant Tuesday afternoon in Dublin, the sailboat of a young Sean’s life was blown off course. From then on, the House of Guinness would become an ever-present island on his horizon.
He’d sit by the window in their cramped one-room dwelling, elbowing his four brothers out of the way in anticipation of his father finally coming home after days on the job. The old man would sit at the table, wheezing and groaning just as much as the creaky chair beneath them. He’d take off his outer jacket. Sean would see the usual dirt and grime from the brewery, but more and more often, he’d also see bruises, scratches, and blood that didn’t have an accompanying wound.
“Fine man, Mr Guinness,” Sean’s father would say.
Being a foreman must be hard work, Sean had decided. Days away turned to weeks. His old man would come back hardened, as if he’d spent all that time left out in the ash. When he was old enough to no longer need his mother’s company, he would run the streets with a couple of mates. Sean always kept an eye out, chancing he may encounter his missing father in the smog-covered pavements or back alleys they’d play in.
He did spot him, just once. Sean couldn’t have been older than seven or eight, sitting on the stoop of the local bottle shop. The busy road had split down the middle, like his pastor had talked about on Sundays. His father made like Moses through the parted crowd. Behind him trailed the towering figure of a black horse. Sean remembered the shine on its coat, like it could have been made of plastic, just like the ones in the shop windows. The crowd averted their gaze, muttering ‘Mr. Rafferty’ to themselves as if it were a secret.
As he drew closer, Sean could see the horse had a rider. Not a mustached man in a tall hat. It was a boy. Younger than himself, although most horse riding boys always looked that way. They had a bizarre, paper-like quality to their pale, empty skin. This one had something in his cheek, making it bulge out from the side as he sucked at it. He kicked his legs and twisted his sticky fingers in the horse’s fine hair.
He had said something to his father about wanting another sweet, which Sean must have heard wrong. His father wasn’t a nanny. He was a foreman. Foremans had red knuckles and would make the men in their block flinch when he came near. He didn’t have time for his own children, let alone the rich little pansy in the sailor collar. That night, Sean had questioned him about it.
“Who was that kid I saw you with in the street? Why did you have a horse? Where were you going? Why did he keep asking you for things?”
“Because, Sean, I’m the foreman for Mr Guinness,” his father had said around the rim of a brown bottle.
Sean knew he had to be choosy about his next question, because it would be the final one his dear old dad would entertain before earning him a clip around the ears.
“What does that mean?”
The wry smile it pulled from his father was etched permanently into the back of Sean’s mind.
“It means…” his father had eyed his slumped seat by the fire. “That you live to serve the needs of the Guinness family,”
Sean nodded slowly. His dad rested his hand on top of his head. “One day, you’ll understand,”
That day came when his father died, keeled over in that very chair. They buried him the morning after, and the day after that, Sean had his first shift as foreman. Now, he thought he understood the meaning of it all much earlier in life. The second he and his brothers were old enough, they all got jobs in the brewery. Shovelling the shit and working long nights at the docks at first. He’d made efficient work in outcompeting his siblings, pushing himself in a niche right by his father’s side until his last breath. It was then that he saw the blood and chaos that it took to keep the doors open. Workers' disputes, underhanded dealings with rival factories, Fenian attacks. It was an endless workload to be in the service of the proud House of Guinness.
One that he was proud to be burdened with. The first time he’d actually stepped foot into their lavish halls, he’d been hardly a day over eighteen. A band of Irish loyalists had the bright idea to stick dynamite into the spokes of the family carriage. A serious miscalculation of judgment. His father, a couple of blokes from the factory, and he made easy work of smoking them out. The great Mr Guinness wanted to look the ballsy pack of twats in their eyes before they were thrown away for good.
They’d lined them up in the foyer, hands behind their backs and chins raised to the staircase to keep any blood from dripping onto the manicured tiles. Sean had stood by his father as Mr Guinness gave them their verbal lashing. He’d spat about the ‘brazenness of their actions’ and the ‘futility of the Fenian cause’. Moreover, the danger it had caused his young family. If Sean had craned his neck, he would have seen each of their ghostly figures lining the top of the stairs.
First was a little girl. She stood doll-like, with a glassy blue gaze and a neutral expression that each person could take their own liberty to interpret. Anne. The second was a boy with gelled hair and a frown that was comically serious for his impish face. Edward. Sean was vaguely aware of an additional Guinness brother. He must not have been present, Sean decided, because the third son was clearly the eldest. Arthur stood with his hands on the bannisters, looking down at the scene with that same vague amusement as the day on his horse.
It struck Sean when their eyes met. Of course, he immediately looked elsewhere, but he could still feel Arthur’s gaze on him. The teenager was lingering, in an odd sort of way, Sean only recognised in women. Out on the street, it would earn you a kick in the teeth. But here, in this impenetrable fortress, that type of thinking was nurtured the same as their greed, their vanity… all side effects of ungodly excess.
You live to serve the needs of the family, Sean had thought as he shoved the Fenian rat to the floor and dragged him out by his ankle. He risked one final glance and caught the eldest Guinness smirking before the front door slammed shut.
That was the last time he saw Arthur until the day of his father’s funeral. It was unusual to have such a strong turnout from the family, but Mr Guinness had insisted.
Fine man, Mr Guinness, his dad would have said.
Arthur had sulked in the back of the church, looking bored and counting the tiles on the roof. He’d shaken Sean’s hand with little enthusiasm. He was soon to be shipped off to London, doing whatever wealthy young men of his status, breeding, and… proclivities…. did for the season. Good. One less Guinness to worry about. It stayed mostly that way throughout his early career. Arthur would blow in on a cloud every other month, boasting of the art and culture of the Empire. He’d smoke his cigar and prattle gossip into his sister’s ear. All while Mr Guinness, with the support of Edward, continued business as usual.
During these visits, he’d occasionally be in the company of another Gentleman. Sometimes, the son of an up-and-coming politician. Often, a future heir to similar fortunes. Always British, and with a nose turned up like he’d stepped in horse shit. It was no secret as to the nature of their companionship; the whispering footmen and maids made sure of that. It was not as though Arthur cared much to hide it either.
Sean had been waiting in the drawing room. It was well after hours, but he carried an urgent message about an upcoming strike down at the docks. As he stood vigilant for Mr Guinness, he heard the skidding footsteps of rain-soaked dress shoes on marble. The sound was followed by breathless whispers.
“Shhhhh! You’re going to wake the whole house…!” he heard Arthur’s voice, trembling from laughter and alcohol.
There was further snickering before another voice teased. “Ohhh? Scared of some trouble, Mr Guinness?”
The footsteps then stopped, and the hall went quiet. Thinking they’d left, Sean stepped out to check. What he found was a very much present Arthur, pressed into one of the marble columns with the other man’s lips to his neck and hand down the front of his trousers. His bow tie was askew, and his dress coat blackened from the rain. He panted against the touch, cheeks flushed and eyes heavy-lidded. Arthur’s gaze fell on Sean. For a brief moment, they were locked together once again.
Arthur’s hand tangled in the other man’s hair as he bit down on his neck. He groaned, keeping firm eye contact with Sean. It was really a test, like a dog taking a piss on your leg. How far could he push with the older man? How much did Sean understand his role as foreman? Rafferty kept his expression dangerously flat as he cleared his throat. Arthur may feel emboldened in his own home, but not his guest. The other man sprang away as if he were jolted by lightning. When he turned to see Sean, the poor kid turned green.
Not liking the abrupt end to their game, Arthur swiftly took back his control. He grabbed his friend’s wrist, guiding him up the stairs. As he passed, he said, “Wake one of the maids up, will you, Rafferty? We’d like a bath.”
“Of course, Sir,” Sean answered, devoid of affectation. Little bastard.
That was the measure of their relationship up until the day Fine Man, Mr Guinness, died. While the four children commiserated together over the balance of their divided abundance of wealth, Sean was spitting blood from the inside of his mouth after a well-placed strike of a Fenian fist. It was chaos in the streets, but they had anticipated nothing less. Why else would Anne have rewarded his men so kindly for their efforts?
Anne Guinness, the girl at the top of the stairs, now thirty years old, ‘Mrs. Plunket’. Their encounter had been brief. Perhaps driven by the grief of her late father, or the soulless union to her wet, undeserving husband. To Sean, it was simply the inevitability of the Guinness family’s true nature. They were designed to come apart at the seams, take what they pleased in spite of all sense and respectability. Likewise, fucking her had been in keeping with his nature, to always be of service to the family. Taking pleasure in it? That was all Rafferty.
The funeral had simply been the linchpin in all hell breaking loose. The new world order was in place, naming Arthur and Edward as the joint heirs to the Guinness Estate. All pieces in the twenty-year balance Rafferty had fought to maintain were thrown off the table, with every opposing side testing the resolve of the new kings.
Sean would be lying to himself if he didn’t revel in delivering the news of the Fenians’ plans to extort the Guinness brothers. After years of Arthur carelessly touting his degeneracy in London bedrooms and behind the doors of The Angel Inn, Rafferty had to force his face to remain expressionless as Edward delivered the news.
“... A suggestion that they have proof, or witnesses that will testify,” the younger brother had said, pacing the brewery floor, “...that you have been having carnal relationships with other men.”
The impact of this was to be expected. An ensuing tantrum from Arthur, pleading his case, waxing melancholic about a lost love by a water lily. It was just as Sean anticipated from a man who thought himself untouchable up until that point.
“A month and a half ago, the Dublin assizes sentenced a man for these crimes to twenty years’ hard labour in the Maryborough Gaol. No consideration for family or fortune. No exceptions.”
Arthur had gaped at him with tearful brown eyes, turned wide and desperate as Sean brought down the hard truth.
“If this were to be revealed, the Guinness Brewery would be finished.”
He levelled his gaze with the other man, finally brought to heel. More things were thrown about, more cussing, more antagonizing the Fenians to dare to take their shot. Edward remained calm to a fault, already calculating their next move amongst his brother’s brashness. In the end, they resolved that Arthur must maintain a low profile. Damage control must be done, and the last thing they needed was to hand further ammunition over to their enemies. No more jaunts to London, or nights at the brothel. The dog must be kept in its cage.
At first, Arthur’s confinement suited Rafferty just fine. With the eldest off the streets and in a neat little box at the Guinness house, it was a loose end that was well secured. He’d never seen the other man be kept on such a tight leash. Though technically free to come and go for all other activities, this sharp end to his social life seemed to have cut the young man off from his lifeline. He prowled about the estate. Vitriolic at first, Sean had heard from the chambermaids that Arthur had thrown himself away in his father’s study, addressing angry letters and then promptly discarding them into the fireplace.
Then came the brooding. Hours spent soaking in the clawfoot tub, chain-smoking through cigars as if they were cheap tobacco. It was a marvel how decadent a prison cell could be, Sean thought as he caught a glimpse of Arthur on his way to see Edward. The man was thrown across a chaise lounge, head tilted out of sight and a crystal glass of whiskey slowly warming in his touch. Hours after his meeting had adjourned, he passed the same doorway to find the man still at his post. Only this time, he’d perched his head up on the armrest, staring into the hallway in wait.
Sean had every intention to ignore him, but unfortunately, his employer had other plans.
“Leaving so soon, Rafferty?” Arthur mused.
He came to a halt, eyes still on the staircase to the exit.
“Plenty of work to be done, Mr Guinness,” Sean replied, folding his hands behind his back patiently. “Particularly the work on your behalf.”
Arthur snorted. “Of course, of course. How hard you are always at work on others' behalf,” he jeered. “Tell me, how is my dear sister of late?”
This did make Rafferty turn. He returned a bemused smile.
“Last I’ve heard is that she had taken ill on her passage through Cloonboo, but you are already aware of that, Sir,”
“Yes, well. That must have come as somewhat of a worry to you, considering how… attentive… You had been to her during the loss of our dear father,” Arthur took a slow sip of his drink.
Attempting to get a rise out of him out of… boredom? Spite? As if Sean were to blame for this solitude of his own making? Rafferty maintained a calm disposition.
“As attentive as I am to any member of the Guinness family,”
Arthur raised a brow. “Is that so?”
Rafferty controlled the urge to roll his eyes. He honestly should have kept walking. Instead, he nodded curtly.
“Can I help you with anything else, Sir?”
Sensing the game was over, Arthur rolled onto his back, waving over his shoulder to wordlessly say ‘be off with you’.
The conversation was well out of his mind before he’d even stepped outside. Edward Guinness had given him a shopping list of personal assignments that rivalled even the likes of his predecessor. On top of managing the ever-growing unruliness in the brewery, he was being sent on a wild goose chase around Dublin to clean up the eldest brother’s ‘loose ends’.
From tap houses to brothels to private parlours, working through the laundry list of names that pertained to any man who had so much as looked at Arthur Guinness crooked. The plan was to get to them before any other interested parties. Edward had offered to buy their silence. Sean offered them a more permanent alternative. He didn’t really give a fuck which they chose. It was far from his proudest moment in his years as foreman, sniffing out Dublin’s queer underbelly.
Unlike the foppish types of London, these kids seemed to spring up from all walks of life. That is probably why the big city damage control was handled by aunties over tea, over Rafferty’s method of dragging men into alleyways by the scruff of their neck. Enough of these encounters pressed the pattern that Arthur liked his Irishmen small, dark-haired, and snappishly dressed. He may as well have been going to bed with a poorer, more wide-eyed mirror image of himself. Sean shouldn’t have found it surprising. The man worshiped his reflection, so why shouldn’t his lovers return that sentiment tenfold? The notion made him wrinkle his nose. More ass-kissing is the last thing that boy needed.
An almost two-week game of homosexual whack-a-mole left Rafferty feeling completely run off his feet. He had finally managed to squirrel away enough time to get the incident report paperwork out of the way, or as he thought of it, his actual fucking job. It was nearing midnight, and with any luck, he’d drag himself home before the dawn shift workers began to clock in. Of course, he wished for too much.
His office door creaked open, revealing the sheepish face of one of the dock boys. His cheeks were red with exhaustion. He’d clearly run from his post.
“Mr Rafferty, sir?” He wheezed.
Not a moment’s bloody peace.
“Come on then, out with it,” He set his pen against the table, already reaching for his coat.
“There is a… situation… down at The Angel,”
The situation being a very pissed off, very intoxicated Arthur Guinness. Rafferty arrived to find his employer in a heated, one-sided row with the bouncer. His top hat sat askew on his head as he yapped in the poor bugger’s face, occasionally shoving against his chest to no avail. The sight of it brought to mind the lousy Jack Russell his grandmother had owned, and how it would bark at the clock in town as it chimed on the hour.
“Good evenin’, Mr Rafferty,” The doorman nodded, gazing above the skewed perch of Arthur’s top hat.
“Oi! Don’chu speak to him. We are having a discussion!” Arthur shoved at his chest again.
“Evenin’, Bobby,” Sean replied. “How’s business?”
“Booming,” he returned humourlessly. “I told Mr Guinness that we were under strict orders not to let him in.”
This made Arthur whip around. Those deep brown eyes twitched when they settled on Rafferty.
“And I have been telling this… kind Sir… that this is my bloody dock, in my bloody city,” he looked at Sean expectantly, as if this were an order. Rafferty simply stared back at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It must have, because Arthur’s next reaction was to kick a nearby bucket into the wall. It exploded against the brick, scattering the rats in its shadow.
“Edward,” he growled low, under his breath. Neither man said anything as Mr Guinness began to pace. He stumbled slightly on the wet cobblestone, hand shooting out to the wall for balance. He was muttering to himself, his eyes darting back and forth. When he stopped, he let out a sharp ‘fuck’ before spinning back to Rafferty. He wore that strained smile he reserved for nosy members of the family.
“I suppose it is him I can thank for the lack of company, hmmm?” He sauntered towards Sean. His coat stunk of whisky. “He’s miserable and unfucked, so why shouldn’t his eldest brother be?”
Rafferty looked at Bobby. The doorman was wisely busying himself with rolling his tobacco.
“Best be getting you home, Sir,” Sean stared down his nose at the other man. Arthur’s mustache barely cleared his breast pocket. He looked back up at Sean, searching his face for answers he wouldn’t find.
“You can piss off back to the brewery,” Arthur slurred, almost losing his balance again. It would be so easy to break the man’s nose. He was at perfect elbow height for a quick knock upside the head. Rafferty let out a long breath.
“Sir, you are needed back at the house. Now,”
Much to Sean’s frustration, Arthur had the audacity to let out a laugh.
“Look at you,” he sneered. Arthur reached up to dust some non-existent lint from Sean’s lapel. “Who's giving the orders now, hey Rafferty?”
It was a reflex. He regretted it in hindsight, but Sean’s hand snapped up to grab Arthur by the wrist. It was entirely out of line. The shock of it made the other man gasp. Rafferty gripped tighter as he bent at the waist, leaning down.
“Mr Guinness, I insist that you come home right now.” It was his final warning.
Arthur’s lips pressed into a thin line. Against the stiff collar of his white shirt, Sean caught his Adam's apple bob. Maintaining their close proximity, Arthur parted his lips like he was about to argue. Instead, he spat on Sean’s shoe.
Fine, Sean decided.
He moved fast. Faster than a drunk aristocrat could dream of countering. Rafferty had Arthur off the ground and thrown over his shoulder like a sack of flour in seconds. The now extremely wise doorman was facing the wall as Sean dragged his employer, kicking and thrashing, back through the gates of the dock. All the while, Arthur hurled violent language and threats that Sean would find very entertaining if he dared follow up. For a man padded out in luxury coats and fine leathers, he weighed as much as his sister in his arms.
“You have no right! Absolutely no right! I’ll have you sacked for this, Rafferty, mark my fucking words, you are done for!”
This was the mantra for the next block. Arthur had tired himself out enough by then that his struggling had ceased. Only then did Sean lower him back to the ground. His hands remained firmly on his employer’s shoulders.
“Mr Guinness,” he began slowly. “We are about to reach the burrows now. There will be a lot more eyes from people who aren’t smart enough to look away. It will be better for everyone if you can continue on foot.”
Arthur’s cheeks were burning pink as he looked up at Rafferty. Perhaps from the booze. Or maybe the humiliation.
Again, Arthur cussed at him under his breath. He tore himself free, taking a bumbling step in the direction of home. Thankfully, Sean was quick to correct him, standing by his side and putting an arm around his shoulder to keep his master from plummeting into the curb. They continued that way for what felt like hours, shuffling silently together against the wind until they finally reached the front steps.
By that point, Rafferty had half a mind to just drop him on the steps, ring the doorbell, and leave. The sun would be up in a couple of hours, and he had another long day ahead of him. Looking down at the other man, Arthur looked no happier to be at home than he was to be at the vomit-stained steps of the angel. When he spoke again, his voice rumbled.
“They are picking out a wife for me, did you know that?”
Sean furrowed his brow.
Arthur slipped out from underneath Rafferty’s arm. He swayed as he slowly ascended the steps. “I won’t be alone anymore… Everyone will be so happy,” Sean felt that Arthur was saying this more to himself. He gave a soft chuckle as he leaned back against the front door, finally getting the opportunity to look down at his foreman.
“No more messes for you to clean up, right, Rafferty?”
Exhaustion must have been getting to him. Why else would Sean have smiled when he replied, “I seriously doubt that, Sir.”
At this, Arthur laughed. A genuine laugh. It was a boyish thing, a sound that momentarily transformed Mr Guinness into the boy atop the black horse.
Rafferty had no choice but to drag his ass back to the factory after that. He knew that by the time he’d managed to reach home, he’d be slugging his muck-covered boots back on and heading out the door. At least at his desk, he could get a moment alone with his thoughts. He folded himself against the wooden surface, eyes stinging as he tried to ignore the constant groan of the machines just outside his door. His mind hazily muddled its way through blurry, brown eyed faces until it found its way to sleep.
It must have been hours before he woke. The commotion of the day had well and truly kicked into gear, and his poor back wouldn’t allow for a second longer in his position. He strained as he sat up, pain shooting down his spine. Rafferty groaned, fumbling on the desk for his discarded watch. Instead, the first thing his hand fell to was an out-of-place card. Amongst the factory reports and newsprint, an unmistakable call had been left for him to wake to.
Here we go again, he grumbled inwardly as he rubbed his eyes, attempting to focus on the print. What he expected was the bland, print-perfect script of the second eldest, sending him on another goose-chase. Instead, he was met with curling penmanship, unmistakable for anyone other than…
Come to the house at 9pm, Friday. I’ll be waiting. A. Guinness.