Red Skies Above, Black Streets Below {L.S.}

i

hello, and welcome to yet another work!
this work is inspired by peaky blinders, an incredible show based in post-WWI England. there will be references based on the show, and the real life 'peaky blinders'.
any/all potential trigger warnings are listed below!
a huge thank you to leah (@killmysugarr) for being the push to start/complete this fic. i hope you love her. ♥️

TWs: - mentions of death / blood / violence
- scenes of mildy-graphic sexual activity

L

He's a god, he's a man
    He's a ghost, he's a guru
        They're whispering his name
Through this disappearing land
     But hidden in his coat
     Is a red right hand.
'Red Right Hand' - Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

Louis loves the sea.
Louis loves the smell of it, pungent with salty death. Louis loves the way it screams at night as the wind whips it into the rocks. Louis loves the turbulent, wild waves, crisp tipped with white foam that leaves residue on his scuffed boots.
Louis takes a hard drag of his cigarette as he stares out at the blue-black water, his other hand stuffed tightly in the pocket of his thick, wool coat. He doesn't have long to sit by the sea today. He has a job across town, but as he feels the tobacco burn the back of his throat, he exhales, watching the smoke disappear in the crisp October wind.
"Only two months left of 1919, Louis. There's gonna be a whole new fuckin decade upon us soon, and here we are, still getting slagged off by a bloke with barely a year on me." Niall had grumbled, his brown hair flopping into his face as he sat bent over his handgun, scowling as he buffed out the scratch in the mahogany coloured wood.
Louis had chuckled, taking a pull from his cigarette as he sat in the windowsill, and shrugged. "Simon will be back soon, and we won't have to worry about it anymore. Don't worry, mate, he's all piss and wind." Louis had flicked the ashes from his cigarette, and had watched them drift slowly down to the rich red carpet below him. He watched them fade from bright orange to deep yellow, until they were cold and grey at his feet.
For good measure, he had dug his heel into them, grinding them into the ground.
Louis sighs, feeling his fingers warm as the burning end creeps closer to his skin, and he flicks the cigarette to the gravelly beach, exhaling one last time. He pulls his cap off of his head, feeling the wind blow against his forehead as he runs a hand through his tawny hair.
He usually didn't mind Simon being gone, but this time was different. Everyone had been at each other's throats lately, and it was all Louis could do to keep the peace, since Simon's second-in-command couldn't be dicked to help.
Louis fights to keep from pettily rolling his eyes as he makes his way back up the shoreline, kicking at stones. They haven't seen heads or tails of Liam Payne for almost three days, and Louis was more than a little annoyed. They'd talked about having a local check the police station, just in case, but they would have heard about it by now.
("One of Simon's men in jail? We'd have to scrub the streets clean for weeks after that bloodbath.")
Coming over the ridge he can see his car parked away from the road, and he tightens his coat around him as a gust of wind picks up.
England during the winter was brutal, and post-war England was no exception. All around them, the people of England were trying to rebuild their lives, and do whatever they could to survive without the friends, family, and resources they once had.
When Churchill had set Inspector Campbell on the Shelby's after they had commandeered all those guns, Simon had gone on the defensive. "The Shelby's are strong, but reckless. They're going to end up tearing each other apart someday, and we'll have to pick up the pieces." Simon had told Louis, sat securely behind his lavish desk as Louis stood in front of him, the eyes of two more of Simon's men baring holes in Louis' back. Simon had stared Louis down as he took a puff from his cigar, and Louis had felt the subliminal messaging in his gaze.
Don't let me down, Louis. Do what it takes to keep us alive.
Louis had heard those words before, and he had failed then. He wouldn't be failing now.
A loud crack of thunder echoes across the sky as Louis reaches his car, pulling the door open as he swings into the seat, leather groaning beneath him. He winces against his own will as the car rumbles around him, and his mind flashes him back to another day with dark, stormy skies, with a gun in his hand, and blood in his eyes, and-
"Fuck off." Louis curses his own mind, and slams his car into gear before peeling down the road, leaving the screams and gunshots behind him in the dust.