A/N: Some of you expressed confusion over not knowing some of the backstory with the troubles. I do write this with the hope that you have a basic knowledge of the conflict. If you don't, that's okay. I made a post on tumblr a short while ago, detailing some basic events and revealing the main sources of contention. If you're interested (I do suggest everyone who is reading this story read it), I'm going to put a link to it on my profile page. Also, the wikipedia page for the troubles isn't half bad either.

Some of you also seemed to be confused in general. That's intentional...just like it was intentional in BC. There are a lot of things Sybil and Tom do not know about one another, and as they get to know one another, you will be let into their worlds more and everything will start to make sense. I hope this chapter kickstarts that. From here, it really takes off...

Enjoy!

Game face, getting why so serious, child?
You're like a boy delirious
When you say is this town worth living in, living in
Is this town worth living in?
Lost Boys - The 1975

"Your friends don't like me."

Sybil turned to Tom, her eyes moving in the same way her mouth did - downward and serious - both doing their best to figure him out. They had only just left her dorm, and she was happy to be done with it — the conversation with Molly and the wardrobe change, and the way she was reminded of what it felt like to be treated like a child; so small and helpless. Sybil wondered, if like the denim jeans she now wore, Tom noticed her change in attitude. She was so sure of herself before and now she felt insecure, smoothing back her hair and fixing where her starched shirt awkwardly pooled beneath her cardigan. She didn't care about these things before meeting Tom, just like he didn't seem to notice things before he met her. Now, Tom was noticing everything, each touch, scent, and glance felt so intensely - like electricity, but the kind you're warned to stay away from by parents who seem to forget it's also beneficial to explain why such power is so dangerous.

"My friends?" Sybil tried to clarify.

"Brian and Molly."

"I'm not really friends with Brian," Sybil explained. "He just—"

"Fucks Molly," Tom finished for her as he stepped into stride alongside her. "Yeah, I get it."

Again, she blinked, taking all of him in, specifically the way his hands, ones that were noticeably large, were stuffed so gently in his pockets, pushing his shoulders up toward his ears. "Why do you cuss all the time?"

"Why don't you cuss all the time?" Tom snapped back, his voice as present as his ego. "You're seriously missing out if you don't let a couple 'fucks' fall from those pretty lips."

"I…" Sybil was speechless. They were at the cafe now. Or at least Tom seemed to have happened upon a familiar spot, because he moved with purpose, opening up the wooden door to let them both inside, leaving a somewhat stunned Sybil to stare at him through the glass clouded by rainstorms and the dirty, sweaty palms of coeds just like herself.

Eventually, she followed, and as he found a booth toward the back, she was surprised to see him waiting, first for her to sit then for her to answer his question. Instead, she asked one of her own. "You think I have pretty lips?"

Tom grabbed for a menu from where several sat near the candle that flickered unobtrusively between them. She followed his lead, but was careful not to let his gaze fall. She wanted an answer; she craved it, and wished he'd hurry up so she could keep all of this going — but why, she was still unsure.

"I find it really hard to believe that a man's never told you how beautiful you are before. Don't act so surprised."

"Not men, no."

Tom sat back and dropped his menu. "Are you a feckin' lesbian? Holy shite…"

"I'm not a lesbian!" she said in loud dismissal. Tom's eyes bulged and he smirked, apparently loving how easy it was to rile her up. "Not that there's anything wrong with that…"

"No, you wouldn't think there is, I suppose," Tom quipped. Soon, his eyes were hidden behind his menu and Sybil was forced to stare at the restaurant name printed so clearly on the front: Stag's Head.

"What does that mean?"

"It means whatever you want it to mean, Sybil."

"Well, I'm not a lesbian," she gave again. She sat with excellent posture and her legs were crossed at the ankle while she held her hands nervously in her lap, her eyes darting about just hoping someone would come over and take their order. When silence threatened to ruin everything, Sybil spoke up, reminding herself that despite their newly antagonistic behavior they both were full of equal insistence on spending time with one another.

Turning back to Tom, she cleared her throat. "I wasn't saying that men haven't told me that, I was saying that those who have told me those things were boys."

"In age or maturity?"

"Some were your age. Some a bit older."

"And are you not flattered? You know, maybe you'd have a boyfriend if you were nicer to everyone. Not so cold..."

"I'm plenty nice. Besides, where's your girlfriend?" Well, Sybil thought, that was certainly more casual than she originally feared.

Tom smirked. "Out of town."

"You're a pig."

Another smile, one that caused Tom to lean forward. "I don't have a girlfriend," he gave simply. "My mam says I read too much, that girls don't care about politics or poetry…"

Sybil watched Tom. Slowly, she repositioned her hands in her lap before reaching up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. She smiled and he noticed, fighting the urge to always ask her why. Winning that battle, but losing the one in which he constantly was so curious about her, a similar word came. "What?"

"I've met your mum before. She's very nice."

"You haven't met my mam…"

"I have too."

"What are you? A fucking stalker?"

"No," Sybil said with eyes that rolled upward. "She reads too."

"My mam does not read."

"Yes, she does," Sybil gave with a scoff. "She's in the shop. Sometimes by herself, sometimes with a younger girl. I imagine she's your sister…"

"Katie Grace," Tom finished.

"Right. Katie Grace. She needed books for school once and your mum and her came in. I hadn't noticed your mum before, and Katie didn't seem interested in much other than the romance section, but they were both really lovely."

Tom chuckled. "You sound surprised."

"I don't doubt that you come from a lovely home, Tom."

"You just think somewhere along the lines my mam couldn't control me. My dad's gone and I don't have a male figure in the home and my mam just kind of gave up. You think I grew up and I rebelled because that's easier to believe than the fact that there are people in this town rooting for me. There are people in this city who thank God everyday I am who I am. But you? You think I'm just a boy with a gun."

"I wouldn't waste my time on boys with guns, so I couldn't possibly think that…"

"Well, Sybil," Tom said, his voice becoming low and hushed as he once again leaned in to her. "I'm a boy and I have a gun—"

"You're hardly a boy."

"Oh, we're back to this argument now?"

"It's not an argument. I'm calling you a man. Take it as a compliment. I thought you'd be good at this," Sybil continued. "You're so full of yourself, I thought your ego would enjoy that."

"I'm full of myself?"

"Very."

"Do you want a drink?" Tom asked casually, the question sounding as if it flowed with the rest of their conversation.

Sybil sat back, struck completely by his question. "I don't drink."

"For fuck's sake, Sybil. What are we supposed to bond over? Do you do anything? Besides read?"

"I'm studying to become a doctor. I don't have much time…"

"You should make time. Before you know it you'll be ninety-five and alone."

"First off, thank you for thinking I will live that long. In this day and age, that's very kind." Sybil said dryly causing Tom to chuckle. "And I may be alone, but at least I'll be alive."

"Yeah, my family has really shite medical history, so I think if I make it to seventy, I'll be happy,"

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Sybil stated with bite.

"I was making a joke, Sybil. Just like you did."

"Well I'm glad you think this is a joke."

"I don't think this is a joke. If by this you mean my life and the city and neighborhood I grew up in and the family and friends I have here, then no, none of it is a joke. You're absolutely right."

"But it's worth dying for?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Where'd you grow up, Sybil?"

Sybil looked away, her eyes echoing what her mind did, thinking of Molly and reminding herself it was best she reveal little about her past, even if it was true that she felt so disconnected from it. "England."

"I know. But where?"

"The country." That was not a complete fabrication, Sybil thought.

"Alright. So you're not going to tell me where you're from. Then I'll guess and that'll just have to be alright because I'm allowed to assume things when people are difficult."

"Yeah, I imagine that idea's been hammered into you from a young age…"

"Wow, Sassy." Tom paused. "Okay, well, I assume you grew up very sheltered. I think your parents make a lot of money. Your dad's what? A solicitor? Something like that?"

Sybil nodded and her voice, so small suddenly, confirmed. "Something like that."

"And your mam probably doesn't work. Because her mam probably never worked. And they probably think it's weird that you want to work because most women in your family don't—"

"Is this a comment on our different backgrounds or are you just going to judge my family?"

"I'm not judging," Tom corrected. "I'm assuming. And again, I'm assuming because you're—"

"I'm not being difficult," Sybil sighed. "I just don't see why it matters. Who cares where I'm from? I'm not there anymore. I have no plans of going back."

"Well I love where I'm from. This place, where you go to school and do whatever it is you do, is my home. I love Dublin and I love living near the water and I love Ireland and the summers I've spent with family on the South coast. This place and these people mean something to me. And my faith and the way everyone in my neighborhood works so god damn hard to put food on the table and raise their children right...that means something to me. All of this matters. Maybe not to you, but to everyone here."

"Nobody is making you leave it," she said simply, and her words had no bias. Even so, just as effortlessly as they were delivered, she regretted them, knowing that Tom would not hear intention correctly. Harshly, she blinked, keeping her eyes closed as she now awaited his reaction.

"I don't have a choice. Just like the Catholics up North don't have a choice where they live."

"What I meant was—"

"I know what you meant," he spat.

"No, you don't!" Sybil returned. "And you're being a child for not letting me clarify. What I meant was that you don't have to go. It won't solve anything, Tom! This has been going on for longer than either of us can imagine! These conflicts are so much a part of who your people are that—"

"Whose side are you on?"

"I'm not on a side!" she said with clear and present conviction. "Molly says I'm not even allowed to have one…" It was this that brought her voice back down to a hush.

"You're allowed to have a side. I may not agree with it, and don't ask me if I do, because I don't know it well enough to have an opinion either way, but you're allowed to have a side. Shite opinions are still opinions, you know?"

Sybil nodded. She felt bad, and was somehow managing to feel worse the more she thought about Tom. It was odd, and she imagined that everyone else, whoever they were, would see it as such. She was English and he was incredibly Irish and the two were about to share a pint beneath an alcove booth in the back of a bar she had always been told to stay away from. She knew little of his world, but wanted to know more. Yet, she was afraid to ask why, when all of the boys like him were sent to the Catholic University on the other side of town, their families lived closer to the docks, controlling portions of bookstores and grocery centres, making it so easy for her to see how difficult it must be for people like them to live anywhere else.

"What are you going to get?"

"A pint," Tom said simply, and with a smirk, making Sybil feel as stupid as he most likely wished she would. Still, he was unassuming, and she found herself nearly brought to tears by how intense his gaze was, taking in the frizzed tendrils that framed her face at the way she nervously wiped at the bridge of her nose to avoid her own stare from taking him fully in.

"Can I ask a question?"

Sybil grinned, causing her eyes to brighten. "Sure."

"What did your supposed friend say to you? Other than you're apparently not allowed to have a side…" Tom said, shrugging off such stupidity.

"Nothing, why? And why is she a supposed friend?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, is the phrase 'surrogate mother' a better fit? C'mon, I saw the way she was. What a cun—"

Sybil glared at Tom, keeping his mouth from continuing to move. He sat back in subtle surrender, but casually so, doing his best to still appear very much in control of the situation. "All I'm saying is that you're better than that. You know, to let some girl tell you how to live your life."

"Am I?"

"I think you are."

Sybil said nothing so Tom continued. "Alright then. Can I make another assumption?"

"You're going to anyway…" Sybil sing-songed. Somehow, Tom laughed and she gave him back what she could: a controlled smile. If she was offended by his earlier comment, it didn't show. In fact, she seemed to happily accept his choice to steer the conversation in a different direction, just so long as it kept going.

"She said something. And it made you think. Or you were offended by it and now you're sad, because that's the kind of person you are. You can't imagine finding fault in your friends, I mean, she's probably the only person around here who talks to you...so the blame is on you. And now you're feeling insecure. Because we're not surrounded by books anymore. You don't know this world. This world is my world and you're an outsider here. And you have no idea why you're still here with me."

This made Sybil smirk, but as she did, she hoped not to reveal an admittal of guilt or innocence. She was neutral. Perhaps she was completely without a side, and she needed Tom, more than he needed her, to create her opinions.

"So I'm going to get us some drinks. And while I'm gone, you're going to leave if you want to leave. And I'm not going to say anything about it either way."

Sybil meant what she said; she didn't, nor did she ever have any intentions of spending time with boys with guns. But Tom, she was finding, was so much more than that. He was merely a boy who happened to have a gun, and as he once jested, it was a small detail she was willing to overlook, because as he moved toward the bar to place an order for the both of them, Sybil did not stir. She was not stunned to the spot, or forgetful of his offer, but in his absence she found she could not take her eyes off of him. The arguments and conversations they had shared thus far were exacerbated by the way in which who she thought he was and her fear of who she believed he wanted to be were confronted with her own shortcomings in changing him, and being unhappy with herself. Molly's words did make her think, and she did blame herself. They weren't right or kind, but they made Sybil see that perhaps she had as much thinking to do as he did, and that if she was meant to constantly run into him like this, this was going to be a concerted effort for both of them, and not just merely her convincing him not to go.

"Well, fuck…" Sybil heard, pulling her out of her own thoughts and the way her eyes were still trained on Tom's back as he stood up at the bar in the center of the room. She thought they were hidden, tucked away, with their booth being in the wall, and with old encyclopedias collecting dust and bar grease right above their heads.

Out of habit, one Sybil had been trying to rid herself of since leaving Yorkshire, she smiled. The closer they became, the less she saw of Tom, but soon she noticed his green army jacket was replaced by theirs, all of them wearing similar hues of green and navy, black and denim. She blinked before looking up. "Can I help you?"

"Possibly," the tallest boy replied. "I'm Aidan," he said with an outstretched hand. "And you and I have never met."

Sybil looked around. The same sense of self she wore when back in the bookshop with Tom was realized once again as she nodded and rolled her lips inward out of amusement. "No, we haven't."

"What's your name?"

"I'm not entirely sure I want to give it to you…"

Aidan looked to his friends, several of them staring back at him as if to say that they were confounded by her as well. They did not laugh in the way Sybil assumed they would, and their actions actually worked to make Aidan even more flustered. He turned back to Sybil and eyed the empty seat across from her, contemplating whether or not he should sit down. "Are you here with someone?"

"Possibly," Sybil gave. "Would it matter?"

"It would, because you see, if you weren't, I'd ask if you'd let me buy you a drink and you'd say yes…"

"Oh, would I?" Sybil deadpanned.

"Wouldn't you?"

"Probably not."

This was what set the other boys off, all of them babyfaced and clean shaven and far too young to think they were so invincible. If Sybil wasn't so defensive she'd realize how sad all of it was before ultimately finding her place in all of it.

"So you are here with someone?"

"Maybe. Or maybe I'm here by myself and I'm annoyed that you're blocking the only sunlight coming into this place."

"Sunlight? You came into Stag's Head for sunlight?" Aidan asked with a tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. Like Tom, the movement of teeth and a stunted, sly smile, had her taking notice of the fact that despite their arrogant nature, all of them were varying degrees of fit. "What? Is Daddy in town for business then?"

"Nope," Tom said from behind them. It caused Aidan to take a step back, and for Sybil, highly amused with her hands tucked flat beneath each thigh, to stare down at the table and smirk. In his hands, Tom carried two pints, both were dark in color, but one that had much more foam on the top than the other.

"Jesus Christ…" Aidan let out as he saw his best friend put the drinks down on the table, confirming what the rest of them had only guessed. "You know her?"

"Her?" Tom asked, nodding toward Sybil. He smirked in her direction, wondering why she hadn't given them her name. "Yeah, I know her," Tom emphasized again, hoping Aidan and all of the rest of his friends took the hint. "What do you need?"

"Well, I was just being nice…"

"What do you need O'Keefe?" Tom repeated. His voice became serious in both tone and volume.

"A drink, for starters. But now I find you're not playing by the rules and—"

"Well if I'm not then you're not either," Tom returned flatly. His eyes also bulged in warning, turning dark and hazy as he bit the back of his lip, seeking control. "Feck off and stop concerning yourself with what I do, alright? I said I was in, and I am. I'll see you tonight at Cleary's."

"Tom…" Sybil said, standing, a feat that was made especially difficult as the table top jutted out over where the bench of the booth remained bolted to the ground. Tom looked to her, and she quickly sat down. For reasons she was unaware of, she felt bad for him, but only temporarily, all before the bitter taste she had in her mouth over Aidan and his talk of "rules" distracted her. Tom had only just told her that this, his life and this city, were not a game. He made no mention of her then, and the realization of this hurt almost as much as the carbonation of the drink she reached out for, that of which she discovered quickly was not stout, but some type of fizzy drink.

The boys left and Tom sat, finally giving Sybil enough space to counter his actions and stand. "Syb…"

"Don't call me that!" she spat as she stepped down off the booth. "Don't call me that and do not follow me out."

"Sybil, let me explain."

"I don't want you to explain. You said I should go and—"

"I said you should go and I want you to go if you want to, but not based off what those assholes say. I saw you, Sybil! You were going to stay…"

"And now I'm leaving. So thank you. Thank you for the drink and thank you for the company and here are your books…" Sybil said, as she reached down into her satchel and revealed Tom's latest book order, all of which was neatly wrapped in newspaper and tied with thin rope cord.

"Flaherty's Insurrection was very good, and I'm surprised you've never read it. Or maybe, like I suspected, you have," Sybil rambled, "and you're planning on stealing it because this edition is rare. If that's the case, just please let me know, because that'd be very unfair to Mr. O'Connor after all he's done for you. Even if you are leaving now…"

"Sybil, wait," Tom tried, grabbing for her waist, or her bag, anything that would keep her in his grip for just a moment longer. As if it was planned, his hand made contact with the skin of her wrist, circling the bony limb in a tight grip, but one that brought her into him softly, the two breathing as their bodies collided, giving eyes ample time to glance from gazes to lips where words wouldn't dare fall. Together they inhaled, then exhaled, until finally Sybil tossed down his hand, dismissing him before straightening herself out so she could properly leave the pub.

Tom followed her, and outside, he tried the same thing. A year ago his mind would have been occupied by the pint he left on the table, and what others would think of him, practically running outside to chase after a girl he had only just met, and who they vowed to never give the same courtesy. He may have even thought this way yesterday, or mere minutes before Sybil Crawley walked into his life, bringing with her wit and now leaving with no apologies.

"Sybil, please!" Tom begged with a voice that was more ragged than anything. He wondered if they weren't so focused on their own talking points, if she would have called him out for smoking and suggest that he quit.

"Tom, I told you not to follow me!" Sybil barked, with arms that were raised up behind her in surrender like wings ready to take flight. .

"Then ignore me!" he gave back.

Suddenly the two were close again, and just like he'd done before, Tom wished to reach out and grab ahold of Sybil's wrist to keep her here.

"Is that why you wanted me to come out with you? Because you and your friends made a bet? What was it? Make fun of some dumb English girl?"

"I wish it was that clever," Tom quipped, hoping to earn a laugh. When none came, and Sybil moved to walk away, Tom blinked and shook his head. "No," he said simply, with a face he hoped was as honest as he was trying to be. "No," it came again and Tom found himself taking yet another step toward her. "It's stupid. And I can't explain it to you right now but I need you to trust me and I need—"

"I can't trust you, Tom. Why would I? Why should I?"

"I need you on my side."

His words were so incredibly honest, and the way in which he spoke them just pleaded that she believe him. Hearing and seeing this, Sybil stopped. She was altogether unable to speak, and the words she did have were things she wouldn't share with him, at least not until he had given her his own version of the truth.

Tom sighed. "I have read Insurrection. Several times. And it scares me that you know that. It scares me that you know a lot of things about me. And it scares me because I want to know things about you too and I don't know why. I like you, Sybil. And I don't know much but I know you're pretty and I know you're fit and you're feckin' smart and incredibly stubborn…"

Sybil repositioned her stance and rolled her neck, staring scrupulously at the space over Tom's shoulder. In another attempt to distract her mind, she turned her glance heavenward, until finally she couldn't stand not to look him in the eye.

"I'm not just some observant person, alright? Well, I am," she said with another upward motion of her eyes, "but with you it's different. I…" Her voice trailed off, and she swallowed, hoping a new attempt at breathing would give her a fresh opportunity to voice her thoughts. "I saw you walk into O'Connors one day and it just really threw me off. Something about you just really fascinated me. You know, I was working for money to get out of here. I was very much about keeping my head down and just getting things done. But slowly, I learned things about you, and suddenly it seemed just as much as I was hoping you would, you'd show up. And on this one Saturday you spent hours near one of the back shelves. Hours," she repeated. "I thought you'd left, but you were taking your time looking for a book. You'd read the first chapters of several, and I knew that some of those were novels you'd read already and you wanted something new, you just couldn't think of what that something new would be. So that started it for me. I wanted to know more about you, Tom. I was curious. I wanted to understand why you, this bright kid, were as obsessed with literature and poetry as you are about this conflict. I just thought if I read what you read, I'd get it. I thought I'd have this brilliant insight into who you are and why you are that way, but I didn't. Every book just made me more and more curious."

"You read my books?"

"All of them."

"You're feckin' nuts, you know that?" Tom asked with a breathy laugh.

Sybil nodded and laughed too. "I know."

"Tom?"

Both were pulled out of the moment by the voice, and with it, the girl it belonged to, stepping into them. Sybil felt just as confused as the girl looked, but was soon distracted by the golden sheen of the girl's hair and her pretty pink lips, ones that made up in softness of tone what they lacked in volume.

"Is everything alright?"

***Insurrection is a book by Irish author Liam O'Flaherty, detailing a group of boys who each struggle with their own identities as young men during a violent conflict - that being the Easter Rising of 1916. The books parallels this chapter in the sense that Tom and his friends have a lot in common with the boys in that book. Their childhood has been robbed from them by the fighting and tension. Some things never change...

Thank you for reading! Thoughts? I'd love to hear them! :]

x. Elle