In the bitter mid-winter's abyss, a fresh snow fell. Flakes of pristine white entangling with the fallen flecks of ash, hazed by a fiery breath. Until they descended in a swirling dance of contradicting shades upon the cobblestone streets of Small Heath below.
The humming memory of carols melded with the distant clank of metal chiming through the empty streets, the city refusing to cease even as the cold December night enveloped the lane in the holiday's softened embrace.
Flickering embers popping through the shadowy blanket of coal, resounding like the delicate warmth pinging forth from piano keys, as the warming notes of a Christmas melody faded into the background. Sharp clinks of glasses colliding in a toast of sloshing Irish Whiskey and bubbling champagne, turning to the subtle click of heels pattering the cobblestone like the clatter of horseshoes meeting the pavement.
The warmth of the Garrison's heady dusky glow felt nothing more than a distant memory to Thomas Shelby, as he trekked the familiar path down Garrison Lane, with the evening's abrasive touch biting against his exposed flesh. As though the blades sewn within the rim of his snug Peaky cap had fallen loose from their stitching and slid along the skin of his neck. Metal tearing below the surface, until he was certain the narrow razor blade dipped down into the rivers of his coursing blood.
The cold a mighty force, as it slashed through the deceptive swirl of a mesmerizing display of snow fluttering innocently downwards from the heavens above.
It bathed the pavement as if the flakes weren't aware that they were falling to merely conceal the extent of sin that loitered in the crevices of this place. Unaware of the blood that had pooled in the cracks and overturned stones of chiseled gravel in the days that had passed on, becoming stale in the smoky air that splashed upon its grave.
Unbeknownst to the amount of beer and opium tainted sickness that had soiled the streets, washed away by buckets to keep the evidence of drunken nights by lost souls from freezing in place for all the winter eyes to see. Concealing the footsteps of soldiers who tracked nothing but bloodshed and leaking souls behind them, as they sought out the only beacon that might be enough to drown out their tortured troubles in a burning amber stream.
They glistened as the moonlight's rare glow danced across their frosted surface, twinkling like the stars obscured from the Small Heath's onyx infused sky. Contradicting the rich burn of citrine that illuminated the breath in front of Tommy's eyes, as they melded with the flame burning through the end of the newly lit Sweet Afton, cigarette smoke wafting in a swirling plume above his shadowed frame.
The smoke felt sweet as it graced his lips, tinged with the taste of her own and something sugary from the indulgence that had swept her taste buds up in a melting pot of rich vanilla and decadent molasses, as she passed the cigarette to him. Her wrist flicking out the match she'd struck to ignite the stick he'd offered her to hold, taking the first drag before handing it back to its rightful owner, while the taste of her lingered on the paper and now on the tip of Tommy's own tongue.
The first breath of smoke spilled out and over her own lips, the very corners puckered a faint azure hue from the pinching fingers of a malicious Father Winter, dipping into the freezing atmosphere in an exhale resembling a dense fog settling over a countryside's morning field. Tommy's own release of a smoky breath, trailing on the very tail end of her breath as it dissipated before their eyes, like a forgotten murmur.
The frigid breeze of the night's cold air, danced through her softened curls like the fingertips of the lonely universe parting through the locks. Copper toned that shimmered like pennies dusted in the soot of Small Heath and the delicate frost of a heavenly oasis beyond, that only in the pale light of the morning's dawning clutch, held the faintest hue of a red whispering through the deep brunette vines.
