[fanfiction] The Complications of Genre
Title: The Complications of Genre 1/2?
Author:
comptine
Rating: T+
Genre: Romance
Summary: It starts with an editor's oversight, continues with some heartless emails and ends with a French author informing his assistant on the subtleties of the British.
Notes: For the FrUK Valentine's Day Aftermath! I had Prompt #18: AU - Francis and Arthur has been chatting on the internet for years when they finally decide to meet
August 18thth, 15:13 - 34.4 kilometres outside of Bath, United Kingdom
It starts with a book.
One that comes across Arthur’s desk one foggy afternoon, it isn’t anything special a draft, something that needs completing so it’s more a stack of papers than a proper book. On top of this, is a plate with toast smothered in jam (raspberries; wild and taken from just down the road) and a cup of steaming hot tea.
Arthur wonders if his assistant, Matthew, learnt how to make jam one afternoon when it tickled his fancy. He worried that the boy had too much time on his hands, living in a cottage in the middle of nowhere probably didn’t help but Arthur didn’t like the hustle and bustle of a city. Matthew had shown up one day, looking a little lost and saying that Arthur’s boss, Elizabeth, had sent him and was this really the Kirkland abode?
From then on, the young man had been living in the spare room, occasionally going out to buy groceries, help Arthur with some of the larger editing projects, and making the trips into the city to send off the edited works. Arthur basically never had to leave his house and this was absolutely perfect to him.
But Matthew brought him this newest work with breakfast and Arthur picked it up, his prominent eyebrows raising behind thick framed glasses. “It’s a novel.”
He turned his face up to Matthew who was picking idly at his sweater, taking a deep breath. “Elizabeth said it would be a challenge. Something to test your skills instead of all those serious works you’re usually editing,” he said, hiding his hands in his sleeves, pressing his round glasses up the bridge of his nose, giving Arthur a small smile, “she insisted.”
“Well, she is the one that signs my cheques,” Arthur said, bending over the stack of paper, starting to read through it, “make sure Winston gets fed.”
Heat of the Moment, by Francis C. Bonnefoy was perhaps one of the most teeth achingly sweet things Arthur had ever read. He got through the first few pages before he never wanted to touch it again. A silly romance and that just doesn’t interest him in the slightest. What was Elizabeth thinking? Was this for him ruining that date she had with that Drake fellow?
Snorting, he pushed it away and hid it under another half-finished manuscript and continued about his day like nothing had changed. There were more important documents to be reading more that required the delicate touch of his red pen and a guiding hand of sense and correction. A romance did not need him.
A few days later, when the weather is cloudy at best, Arthur heard his phone give a small buzz and he automatically turned to his computer, opening his email and frowning at the newest addition to his inbox.
HEAT OF THE MOMENT
Francis C. Bonnefoy (FBonnefoy@gmail.com)
Dear Mr. Kirkland,
I understand you have been made my editor and I was curious as to what you thought of Heat of the Moment.
Regards,
F. C. Bonnefoy.
Arthur stared at the email and quickly opened a reply. It was time to get this out of the way. Elizabeth’s point had been made, she could find someone else to edit the Heat of the Moment and Arthur would get back to everything else he had to do.
re: HEAT OF THE MOMENT
Arthur Kirkland (arthurkirkland@empirepublishing.uk)
Bonnefoy,
I assure you that a mistake has been made. This romance is not my forte and to be honest I have no interest in this genre. Please contact my boss, Elizabeth, and ask her to reassign you.
Cheers,
Arthur
There. Clean, simple and no fuss. He wasn’t rude, just honest and in the end it would be more beneficial to both of them. Bonnefoy would have an editor who actually cared about Heat of the Moment and Arthur wouldn’t have to read another line of that twopenny-halfpenny nonsense-
His phone buzzed. An email popped up in his inbox.
Sniffing, he turned to it.
RE: re: HEAT OF THE MOMENT
Francis C. Bonnefoy (FBonnefoy@gmail.com)
Mr. Kirkland,
Please read past the prologue of my novel before claiming you know what genre it is.
Bonnefoy
Well then. Arthur huffed a little at the email, cursing once and standing up, taking the manuscript from under the pile of discarded papers. In the kitchen, he set to making tea while Matthew popped his head in from another room, arms filled with book (he was reorganising Arthur’s substantial library).
“Something wrong, Arthur?” He asked, round glasses hanging on the very tip of his nose.
Arthur grunted, settling the kettle on the old stove and holding out the manuscript. “What is Heat of the Moment about, exactly?”
Matthew heaved the books onto the table, pushing his too-long sweater sleeves back and nudged his glasses further up his face. “Al-”
“Alfred? Your brother suggested I read this?”
Arthur’s eyebrows knit together as Matthew gave a nervous laugh. “Not entirely. I skimmed it before I suggested to Elizabeth that you read it. It’s really in your line, Arthur. Trust me a little, eh?”
The quiet smile his assistant had did not fade in the face of Arthur’s ticked off expression and the editor turned away in a huff. “Alright,” he picked up the script, moving past the first few pages until he reached the first chapter.
Leaning against the counter, Arthur started to read, foot tapping against the floor in an impatient beat until he was two paragraphs in, foot stopping and actually shocked by what he was reading. He was already through the first chapter until the kettle was whistling and it barely registered.
Not until Matthew came in, taking the hissing thing off the stove did Arthur actually looked up. “This is-”
“Good?” Matthew said, laughing lightly, pouring the water into a small pot, adding a dash of tea leaves and looking at his mentor.
Arthur frowned. “Adequate."
It took Arthur two days to finish Heat of the Moment and most of it was spent curled up in an armchair, devouring the script. What had started out as a romance quickly gave way to an intricate plot revolving around a young man trying to find out who killed his young fiancée. Not only that, but with backdrop of Victorian London along side the infamous case of Jack the Ripper, Arthur’s unabashedly Anglophile leanings were absolutely tickled pink.
Suffice to say, Bonnefoy had done his research, blending fact and fiction, creating a perfect little world that Arthur lost himself in for a few hours each day. It was revolting really, to get so lost in fiction, but Arthur had a soft spot for this kind of thing, one that he rarely acknowledged so this was a… guilty pleasure!
That’s what he kept telling himself at least.
Past midnight on a late August night, Arthur reached the final chapter and curled a little tighter in the quilt his mother had made him and proceeded to read. It was brilliant to see the thin plot threads all coming together and he finished the last line, staring at the page.
--
August 29th, 09:13 - Paris, France
“Okay so today we’ve got a bunch planned,” Alfred said pacing in front of Francis’ desk, scanning his phone’s screen, fingers rolling and tapping against it. The author watched him, still not awake and eyeing the coffee in the American’s hand like it was water to a man in the desert.
The American had not been his first choice of assistant but there had been a mix-up at the office and he’d actually be traded for his twin brother but before Francis could send Alfred to England and get his proper help, a young man named Matthew Williams, the blue-eyed blond had already wormed his way into Francis’ heart.
Save for mornings. Alfred was unabashedly a morning person and Francis, a creature of the night, did not enjoy being woken up every morning by 150 pounds of pure smiles and sunshine.
He wanted that coffee in Alfred’s hand.
“Alfred,” he murmured, rubbing the corners of his eyes, “le café, s’il-vu-plait.”
“What?”
Francis grumbled. “In French, please. You need to learn the language.” He held out a hand and Alfred groaned, passing over the coffee, taking a deep breath.
“Nous besoin aller, uh, ‘lunch’ avec vos soeurs et il y a un…. ‘signing’ dans une librarie et après un diner a… some fancy-ass restaurant.”
“Close enough,” Francis said, sipping his coffee, smiling slightly at the delighted look on Alfred’s face before turning to his computer, checking his email. His smile grew when he saw the newest email, sent in the early hours of the morning and he quickly opened it.
HEAT OF THE MOMENT - my second reading
Arthur Kirkland (arthurkirkland@empirepublishing.uk)
Bonnefoy,
It was quite good. Expect edits by the end of next week.
Cheers,
Arthur
Francis jumped a little as Alfred appeared behind him, leaning over his shoulder and frowning at the screen. “Isn’t that the dipshit editor that rejected you the first time?”
“Yes,” the Frenchman leaned his chin on his hand, “this is as close to an apology as I can get.”
“Dude, it’s barely a compliment.”
Standing up, Francis clapped his assistant on the shoulder. “Barely a compliment is mountains of praise when received from a rosbif. You will learn how to read people from that repressed nation like they were children’s books if you stick with me, Alfred.”
Not looking entirely convinced, Alfred shrugged and walked over to a chair where he’d dumped his things, sliding on his bomber and slinging on his bag while Francis carefully pulled on a scarf, tucking into his jacket.
“Wait a second, rosbif means roast beef… You French have crazy words. Are you going to start calling me hamburger?”
“Only if you insist on being a meathead~”
Author:
comptine
Rating: T+
Genre: Romance
Summary: It starts with an editor's oversight, continues with some heartless emails and ends with a French author informing his assistant on the subtleties of the British.
Notes: For the FrUK Valentine's Day Aftermath! I had Prompt #18: AU - Francis and Arthur has been chatting on the internet for years when they finally decide to meet
August 18thth, 15:13 - 34.4 kilometres outside of Bath, United Kingdom
It starts with a book.
One that comes across Arthur’s desk one foggy afternoon, it isn’t anything special a draft, something that needs completing so it’s more a stack of papers than a proper book. On top of this, is a plate with toast smothered in jam (raspberries; wild and taken from just down the road) and a cup of steaming hot tea.
Arthur wonders if his assistant, Matthew, learnt how to make jam one afternoon when it tickled his fancy. He worried that the boy had too much time on his hands, living in a cottage in the middle of nowhere probably didn’t help but Arthur didn’t like the hustle and bustle of a city. Matthew had shown up one day, looking a little lost and saying that Arthur’s boss, Elizabeth, had sent him and was this really the Kirkland abode?
From then on, the young man had been living in the spare room, occasionally going out to buy groceries, help Arthur with some of the larger editing projects, and making the trips into the city to send off the edited works. Arthur basically never had to leave his house and this was absolutely perfect to him.
But Matthew brought him this newest work with breakfast and Arthur picked it up, his prominent eyebrows raising behind thick framed glasses. “It’s a novel.”
He turned his face up to Matthew who was picking idly at his sweater, taking a deep breath. “Elizabeth said it would be a challenge. Something to test your skills instead of all those serious works you’re usually editing,” he said, hiding his hands in his sleeves, pressing his round glasses up the bridge of his nose, giving Arthur a small smile, “she insisted.”
“Well, she is the one that signs my cheques,” Arthur said, bending over the stack of paper, starting to read through it, “make sure Winston gets fed.”
Heat of the Moment, by Francis C. Bonnefoy was perhaps one of the most teeth achingly sweet things Arthur had ever read. He got through the first few pages before he never wanted to touch it again. A silly romance and that just doesn’t interest him in the slightest. What was Elizabeth thinking? Was this for him ruining that date she had with that Drake fellow?
Snorting, he pushed it away and hid it under another half-finished manuscript and continued about his day like nothing had changed. There were more important documents to be reading more that required the delicate touch of his red pen and a guiding hand of sense and correction. A romance did not need him.
A few days later, when the weather is cloudy at best, Arthur heard his phone give a small buzz and he automatically turned to his computer, opening his email and frowning at the newest addition to his inbox.
HEAT OF THE MOMENT
Francis C. Bonnefoy (FBonnefoy@gmail.com)
Dear Mr. Kirkland,
I understand you have been made my editor and I was curious as to what you thought of Heat of the Moment.
Regards,
F. C. Bonnefoy.
Arthur stared at the email and quickly opened a reply. It was time to get this out of the way. Elizabeth’s point had been made, she could find someone else to edit the Heat of the Moment and Arthur would get back to everything else he had to do.
re: HEAT OF THE MOMENT
Arthur Kirkland (arthurkirkland@empirepublishing.uk)
Bonnefoy,
I assure you that a mistake has been made. This romance is not my forte and to be honest I have no interest in this genre. Please contact my boss, Elizabeth, and ask her to reassign you.
Cheers,
Arthur
There. Clean, simple and no fuss. He wasn’t rude, just honest and in the end it would be more beneficial to both of them. Bonnefoy would have an editor who actually cared about Heat of the Moment and Arthur wouldn’t have to read another line of that twopenny-halfpenny nonsense-
His phone buzzed. An email popped up in his inbox.
Sniffing, he turned to it.
RE: re: HEAT OF THE MOMENT
Francis C. Bonnefoy (FBonnefoy@gmail.com)
Mr. Kirkland,
Please read past the prologue of my novel before claiming you know what genre it is.
Bonnefoy
Well then. Arthur huffed a little at the email, cursing once and standing up, taking the manuscript from under the pile of discarded papers. In the kitchen, he set to making tea while Matthew popped his head in from another room, arms filled with book (he was reorganising Arthur’s substantial library).
“Something wrong, Arthur?” He asked, round glasses hanging on the very tip of his nose.
Arthur grunted, settling the kettle on the old stove and holding out the manuscript. “What is Heat of the Moment about, exactly?”
Matthew heaved the books onto the table, pushing his too-long sweater sleeves back and nudged his glasses further up his face. “Al-”
“Alfred? Your brother suggested I read this?”
Arthur’s eyebrows knit together as Matthew gave a nervous laugh. “Not entirely. I skimmed it before I suggested to Elizabeth that you read it. It’s really in your line, Arthur. Trust me a little, eh?”
The quiet smile his assistant had did not fade in the face of Arthur’s ticked off expression and the editor turned away in a huff. “Alright,” he picked up the script, moving past the first few pages until he reached the first chapter.
Leaning against the counter, Arthur started to read, foot tapping against the floor in an impatient beat until he was two paragraphs in, foot stopping and actually shocked by what he was reading. He was already through the first chapter until the kettle was whistling and it barely registered.
Not until Matthew came in, taking the hissing thing off the stove did Arthur actually looked up. “This is-”
“Good?” Matthew said, laughing lightly, pouring the water into a small pot, adding a dash of tea leaves and looking at his mentor.
Arthur frowned. “Adequate."
It took Arthur two days to finish Heat of the Moment and most of it was spent curled up in an armchair, devouring the script. What had started out as a romance quickly gave way to an intricate plot revolving around a young man trying to find out who killed his young fiancée. Not only that, but with backdrop of Victorian London along side the infamous case of Jack the Ripper, Arthur’s unabashedly Anglophile leanings were absolutely tickled pink.
Suffice to say, Bonnefoy had done his research, blending fact and fiction, creating a perfect little world that Arthur lost himself in for a few hours each day. It was revolting really, to get so lost in fiction, but Arthur had a soft spot for this kind of thing, one that he rarely acknowledged so this was a… guilty pleasure!
That’s what he kept telling himself at least.
Past midnight on a late August night, Arthur reached the final chapter and curled a little tighter in the quilt his mother had made him and proceeded to read. It was brilliant to see the thin plot threads all coming together and he finished the last line, staring at the page.
--
August 29th, 09:13 - Paris, France
“Okay so today we’ve got a bunch planned,” Alfred said pacing in front of Francis’ desk, scanning his phone’s screen, fingers rolling and tapping against it. The author watched him, still not awake and eyeing the coffee in the American’s hand like it was water to a man in the desert.
The American had not been his first choice of assistant but there had been a mix-up at the office and he’d actually be traded for his twin brother but before Francis could send Alfred to England and get his proper help, a young man named Matthew Williams, the blue-eyed blond had already wormed his way into Francis’ heart.
Save for mornings. Alfred was unabashedly a morning person and Francis, a creature of the night, did not enjoy being woken up every morning by 150 pounds of pure smiles and sunshine.
He wanted that coffee in Alfred’s hand.
“Alfred,” he murmured, rubbing the corners of his eyes, “le café, s’il-vu-plait.”
“What?”
Francis grumbled. “In French, please. You need to learn the language.” He held out a hand and Alfred groaned, passing over the coffee, taking a deep breath.
“Nous besoin aller, uh, ‘lunch’ avec vos soeurs et il y a un…. ‘signing’ dans une librarie et après un diner a… some fancy-ass restaurant.”
“Close enough,” Francis said, sipping his coffee, smiling slightly at the delighted look on Alfred’s face before turning to his computer, checking his email. His smile grew when he saw the newest email, sent in the early hours of the morning and he quickly opened it.
HEAT OF THE MOMENT - my second reading
Arthur Kirkland (arthurkirkland@empirepublishing.uk)
Bonnefoy,
It was quite good. Expect edits by the end of next week.
Cheers,
Arthur
Francis jumped a little as Alfred appeared behind him, leaning over his shoulder and frowning at the screen. “Isn’t that the dipshit editor that rejected you the first time?”
“Yes,” the Frenchman leaned his chin on his hand, “this is as close to an apology as I can get.”
“Dude, it’s barely a compliment.”
Standing up, Francis clapped his assistant on the shoulder. “Barely a compliment is mountains of praise when received from a rosbif. You will learn how to read people from that repressed nation like they were children’s books if you stick with me, Alfred.”
Not looking entirely convinced, Alfred shrugged and walked over to a chair where he’d dumped his things, sliding on his bomber and slinging on his bag while Francis carefully pulled on a scarf, tucking into his jacket.
“Wait a second, rosbif means roast beef… You French have crazy words. Are you going to start calling me hamburger?”
“Only if you insist on being a meathead~”