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“I’ve had a headache for three days straight, that shit ever happened to you?”

#starter: open.#thread.#muse: xavier teller.#the king of basic is BACK BABY!!!!#kjshgfsghjks

date: march 15th, 1925--frank’s first day as a free man. location: orion black charitable ball. status: open.

Fabian forced him here. Pulled up outside of the prison gates in the car that frank missed so dearly, garment bag in hand, to instruct him of his attendance at the black’s memorial gala in honor of their uncle. He came without Gideon in tow, despair painted across the irises of his eyes, but there wasn’t nearly enough time to cry. Frank did his time, yes, but there were more important appointments at hand. Frank had to pick up what the hole of Gideon left behind: smile, make nice, flirt with the ladies, all so Fabian could go and do whatever it was that he had to do. For some reason, he couldn’t tell Frank. Wouldn’t, Frank thought was more like it. But now he was back to where he belonged--back to his promises. It was bittersweet, surrounded by the extravagance and slightly ostentatious decor the Blacks preferred, because while he felt finally alive... The mark of death clung to him so.

He stood near the bar, a lively jazz band playing a few feet away from him, and smiled in kindness as some older man--an old business partner of some firm or other--was talking his ear off. Longbottom, I know the name, but he offered no other information about his father, his ancestors, than he would have liked to hear. So he smiled. He nodded. His eyes glanced around the room, scanning for an escape, when a hand on his shoulder startled him.

“Excuse me, sir. One moment,” he said to the stranger. Then, “There are politer ways to interrupt a conversation,” he pointed out as he turned to face who had approached him.

#temp:starter #starter: open.

Exhaustion pulled his muscles tight beneath his skin and though the promise of a bed waited for him at home, he found himself stumbling into the first pub he found. The dim lights appealed to him as well as the dated folk bordering on country music playing from the equally dated jukebox. He felt a surge of nostalgia rush through him at the memory when both the song and the machine first hit the market, feeling as though it were yesterday but knowing that past was far gone. Oliver found his place at the bar, craving whiskey and ultimately choosing wine. There were more people in here than he’d have guessed for a Wednesday night, but the noise was tranquil... At least for now. He knew what waited for him back at home. His trip had taken more time than he initially planned for and alcohol would surely help him stay sane in the end. Still, he should’ve known better than to expect privacy in a crowded bar.

“Stare too long and you’ll go blind,” he teased to the person a few seats down from him, amused by their inability to remain inconspicuous. “Isn’t that how the saying goes?”

#wither.threads #starter: open.

date: april 30th, 1925. locations: black’s blossoms & blooms. status: open.

Tuesday afternoon tickled its way by, strolling along at a leisurely pace. Yet inside the doors of her own floral shop, Andromeda felt as if the entire day was hurling along at light speed. May was right around the corner, the warmth of the flirtatious summer slowly seeping in, and the youngest Black was currently bustling along in the backroom, cutting ribbons, with three different types of flower petals caught in her hair. The bell attached to the front door of the shop rang, twinkling lights illuminating, and the wash of fresh air filtering in from the open windows lured her out the front.

“Two for one sale today! Gift wrapping and ribbon decorations only seventy-five cents extra today, as well,” she hollered from the back, wrapping the last strands of ribbon around her arm to hang it from the display up front. Hurrying out, she let her smile stretch across her face as she searched for the customer who remained hidden by the multiple flower displays. “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?” Andromeda called out.

#temp:starter #starter: open.

date: july 24th, 1925. location: union square park. status: open.

The moon was brighter, higher in the sky, than he would have cared for tonight. Hanging low, illuminating every blade of grass that he crunched beneath his boot while the smell of stale bread hung in the air. He checked his watch. Nearly two a.m. “God damnit,” he muttered beneath his breath, anger flaring at the thought of being ditched. They were supposed to meet him here at one. Not two. Not quarter to two. Not half past. Just one. Still, Frank leaned against a tree, cigarette hanging limply from his hand, appearing to be no more than a straggler--home after a late night of drinking, maybe the wife was still awake, kids asleep if he had’em--but Frank knew he couldn’t hang around much longer.

The Longbottom didn’t make it a habit of disappearing very often. Not when he was needed. Not when there were more important things at stake. Still, prison had turned him into something of a ghost--often caught pacing like a ghost over grass and concrete and pavement until he wore his shoe print into the ground, deep into the earth, where even the worms couldn’t get to. A month was long. A month was what he needed. A month was his prescription and God forbid he get addicted because more than once he thought about taking his car West, farther than Appalachia, until the mountains of the Rockies loomed ahead and the water smelled crisp and the treachery of New York City was left in the exhaust of his muffler...

Frank heard the footsteps approaching, the figure outlined in shadows and starlight and secrecies. “You’re late,” he said, taking another drag of his cigarette so the smoke would coat his lungs in a stinging glory. Frank kept his head down, eyes on his toes and the red scuff mark on the leather of his boot. “That’ll cost ya.”