You could sense his presence in the room, far before your eyes peeled open to face the late afternoon light. For his scent wafted around you, piercing through the stinging odor of antiseptic that burned at your senses, like a fire might just catch on the trail of the flammable aroma. It broke through the barrier of a cleanliness that smelled richly of lemons and something chemical, as though the salt of his sweat and the dirt on his flesh were tangible in the atmosphere, and you could nearly feel the moment they scathed the once pure environment, smudging his print of life upon the air that you breathed.
The first deep breath to seep into your lungs as consciousness found your being again, was saturated with the familiar tones of heady tobacco and rich sandalwood, melding with the notes of the Earth not far from his flesh.
For Thomas Shelby always seemed to carry with him the scent of the ground, as though the aroma that lined his skin like a layer altogether, was that inexplicable breath before a rain shower appeared. When there was a crispness lingering in the atmosphere, as if the clouds whispered out its intent and you could nearly grasp hold of its words in the palm of your hands.
He smelled of the wind, like the breeze that blew down Watery Lane that early morning, had coiled it's essence into the strands of his raven locks and wove its memory into each and every filament he adorned. He smelled of the smoke and the factory fires and he even smelled like a tinge of Small Heath misery. It was a beguiling scent, full of intoxicating contradictions and yet, to you, it just smelled like comfort.
You'd awakened far too late to enjoy the pale stream of sunlight that had once graced the hospital floors, lashes fluttering tiredly just in time to witness the last fall of a marigold sun, sharp beams piercing through the thin linen shades drawn for the day. They were golden in nature, as their heat danced along the hardwood panels and very base of blankets spread over your legs, and you watched the way the particles in the atmosphere twirled within its thin rays.
The room was not warmed by the falling sun, but it was not frigid to the point that your bones began to shake either. You could feel the goosebumps risen across the flesh of your exposed forearms, but you didn't feel cold. It was temperate and slightly humid, like the remnants of anxiety lingered in the space, making it feel dense and slightly sticky with the trace of sweat and stress. But even so, there was a certain calmness that carried throughout the room, and you knew, without a doubt, where it stemmed from.
Perhaps, the azure embedded within the irises of his chiseled orbs, had always been this formidable. But maybe, as your eyes peered open and fell upon the sight of their scrutiny staring right into your own, as though he'd simply been waiting all this time for your eyes to open and see the world around you, they appeared stronger than they ever had before. Because there was a chance you were never going to see them again.
They'd been the last shade of life you'd seen before blackness had consumed your vision, as though the cerulean blue that washed over you like an incoming tide, had been the hue to gently guide you on your way. A tender current, enveloping your body in waves made of breathtaking blue, promising to wrap you in all the comfort they could possibly provide, as you drifted down the stream, until your pain was no more. You couldn't have selected a better sight, even if God himself had stopped and asked you what it was you might like to have as your last sight on this entire Earth.
Tommy's eyes were a beauty far too potent for this world and surely, too strong for one man. But they were the most mesmerizing sight you'd ever witnessed in this lifetime and to have them be the very last light your eyes would ever see, there was peace within that notion. A beautiful, tranquil peace that washed over you, and you felt contentment spread throughout your being, just as the last drop of consciousness faded from view.
