Most Fragrant Rose of Summer [1a/?]
anonymous
December 23 2010, 08:25:30 UTC
Sunset on the fifty-third floor, in the southwest corner office, was spectacular.
“As soon as you finish you may go.”
Gold burned into red faded into violet night, smeared across the sky. The bands of color sewed the jagged city skyline and the heavens together with imperceptibly fine stiches. The first three stars began to sparkle. Underneath, the city sparkled too.
“It will be difficult for you to leave after I lock my door behind me.”
It was never fully dark in the city. But now, at sunset, when the natural light balanced the glimmer and shine of the manmade signs… now the city came alive. Or. The city was always alive, really. It was always alive, its heart was always beating, but the city fell in love when the sun began to set. The light from the setting sun made for the best love story in the world.
“Claudine, dearest Claudine, if you’re still out there when I open this door I’ll be very disappointed in you.”
Or was anything truly alive if it wasn’t in love?
“Mr. Bonnefoy, please. I need to finish this report for Mr. Wang. There are only two weeks until your presentation!”
Face and hands suspended in the air a centimeter away from one of the office’s two walls of glass, Antonio Fernandez Carriedo looked down upon the world and smiled. It was a world full of light and sound, full of hurry and scurry and chance and happenstance. And love. And it would only be his world for a few minutes more.
“Toni… if you don’t hurry I’ll lock you in. And the only foods I have left in here are a packet of Gilbert’s crackers and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. The latter is an 1837. I’d hate to waste it.”
Antonio finally pulled his attention away from the sinking sun. “Huh? Francis…?” His friend and agent stood at the opposite end of the room, long dark coat already on. He even had a finger poised over the light switch. “What were you saying?”
Francis Bonnefoy, millionaire and miracle worker, leaned against one of his thick office doors and shaded his eyes. The view from his office was spectacular, certainly, but at times like these it was also blinding. The glare of the sun seemed to reflect every other bit of metal and glass in the city and pointed all their brightness onto a point a little to the left of Francis’s desk. Francis generally took the focused rays as a sign to stop working; Antonio took them as a sign to continue burning his retinas. “I was saying how tragic it is that Gilbert will never be able to finish his snacks. And if I remember correctly, he was very fond of them. Claudine!”
A smaller, dutiful silhouette appeared at the door. Antonio couldn’t see her face because he couldn’t see much after staring into the sun for so long, but he didn’t need to see to recognize Francis’s personal assistant. Claudine Grimaldi radiated competent worry in the same way Francis radiated confident whimsy. It was unmistakable.
“Mr. Bonnefoy?”
Francis placed one hand on his assistant’s blouse and let one side of his mouth quirk up just so. “Claudine, my dear, my light!”
Claudine didn’t flinch. Antonio assumed she had gotten used to it: in that, she was doing much better than any of Francis’s other assistants had done. “Mr. Bonnefoy, the report. Mr. Wang will not wait.”
Mr. Wang… the name sounded familiar to Antonio. “Francis, isn’t that the-”
Francis dismissed Antonio with a wave and continued to speak. “Claudine, special order three more boxes of Mr. Beilschmidt’s favorite crackers. I want them delivered by noon tomorrow, Gilbert will most likely come in by then. If Antonio is locked in here all night I don’t know how else he will possibly survive, other than to eat me out of office and home.” Claudine did not roll her eyes. Professionals did not roll their eyes, even when their bosses were being particularly ridiculous. “After that you may go, dear. In fact, I insist you let me drive you home.” He winked.
Professionals couldn’t help but roll their eyes when their bosses were being particularly flirtatious. “Yes sir.”
Most Fragrant Rose of Summer [1b/?]
anonymous
December 23 2010, 08:33:08 UTC
All queries about the mysterious Mr. Wang forgotten, Antonio turned back to the window for one last look. The sunlight was fading swiftly and Antonio found it a true shame. Once the sunset was gone all the magic in the city was lost. Lost until dawn. Or, at least, that’s what his heart told him. Once the light was reduced to a dim warm glow, once the city of glints and gleams turned back into a city of grimy glass and chrome, Antonio turned his back on the view and blinked the spots in his vision away. Surprisingly, Francis was still waiting at the open door. “But Francis, I’m not going to be locked in here: I have to get home!”
Francis, interrupted from watching his personal assistant attempt to cram three more hours of work into ‘just one more minute Mr. Bonnefoy,’ tapped the side of his cheek in thought. “But I’m leaving now and you haven’t even picked up your things. Really, Antonio, I have no idea how you won’t be trapped here.”
Antonio blinked. Five seconds later he had a red and yellow striped scarf more-or-less thrown across his shoulders and a thick, new folder dangling from one hand. He jumped through the office doors before Francis even had time to flick off the lights. “What about now?”
“Just a minute, Mr. Bonnefoy!”
Francis shut his office door at the same time the sun abandoned the world. With as much ceremony as he felt the action deserved, Francis produced an intricately designed golden key and turned it twice in the door’s lock. Once his task was finished he threw up both of his hands in lighthearted surrender. “Now you don’t have to stay. That was a narrow escape Toni.”
Antonio nodded. “It was. I wouldn’t be very happy stuck at work all night long.”
Keys clicked and fingers flew at a desk several feet away. “Th-three more seconds, sir. That’s all I need to finish this report. Three more seconds. Minutes.”
With Antonio finally ready to leave, Francis stepped jauntily towards his assistant’s desk. A charming smile in place, he leaned over Claudine’s nameplate, settled his face near her right ear, and gleefully kicked her power strip’s cord out of the wall. Her computer screen went black. Her desk lamp went dark. Her face went still. Francis congratulated himself inwardly. “Come my dear, your coach awaits.”
From his vantage point several feet away, Antonio was torn between clapping and grabbing his notebook from his back pocket. He settled on the latter, because when Francis was good he was a genius and Antonio hated letting little bits and pieces like this slip from between his fingers. While Claudine spluttered and Francis winked, Antonio began to take haphazard notes.
He didn’t stop until a light touch on his shoulder interrupted him. “Toni.”
boss and secretary, wanton work romance, forbidden love, duty and freedom, class differences, who’s tapping my shoulde- Antonio’s pen slid across the surface of his small journal. “Are you already done?”
Francis gestured towards the elevator. Antonio didn’t remember when it had been called or when it had arrived, but Claudine was already in it so those both must have happened a few minutes earlier. Oh. “Antonio.” The two began to walk. Francis didn’t remove his hand. “You haven’t gotten a new notebook yet? I know I’ve seen that one before.”
“I haven’t found the right one. This is my backup.” Antonio looked back at the empty executive offices on the fifty-third floor. Funny, usually Francis was the first to leave, not the last. Antonio wondered where the publishing firm’s other important people were. Perhaps they were already off enjoying the night. “Once I find the right story then I’ll find the right notebook, and then I’ll have my next book!” It was a simple system: whenever Antonio felt he’d found the inspiration for his newest novel, he bought a fresh notebook. The type mattered. It had to be small enough to fit in his pocket; otherwise he’d never remember to keep it with him. It had to have enough pages to contain an entire romance. It had to suit the story.
It had to suit the person Antonio wanted to fall in love.
Most Fragrant Rose of Summer [1c/?]
anonymous
December 23 2010, 08:41:03 UTC
That’s what romance novels were all about, essentially. Not love. Not exactly. If romance novels were about love then they’d be awfully boring, and Antonio wasn’t very good with boring things. Earlier in life his superiors always had to hassle him to keep at the jobs he had no passion for. No, romance novels were about falling in love, a beautiful thing in its own right. Something, Antonio was of the opinion, that more people needed to do more often.
And once they read his books they would. He was certain of that.
The elevator chimed when it settled at the ground level. It chimed again when the doors opened. Francis spoke as he helped Claudine into the lobby. “I can barely wait.” Antonio waved to the security guards, and tucked his book back into his pocket. He had seen Francis accompany many women on walks before. There was nothing he could base a tale on here. “And, although I hate to say it,” Francis paused just short of the front entrance. Antonio didn’t, but his scarf got caught up in the revolving doors just long enough for Francis’s words to grab his attention. “I truly hate saying it, but others at this company will not wait at all.”
One, two tugs were all Antonio needed to free his scarf and stumble back. But something about Francis’s words didn’t make any sense. “Because they really like my novels?”
When Francis didn’t speak, Claudine reluctantly answered. “Mr. Fernandez, you have two months until your next draft is due. The folder Mr. Bonnefoy gave you earlier tonight outlines your deadlines and the sales of your last book. Please read every document carefully, and feel free to call me with any concerns,” she adjusted her wire-frame glasses, “or I can schedule you an appointment with Mr. Bonnefoy,” Francis perked up, “but only on the condition that Mr. Bonnefoy has no other matters to attend to.”
Antonio and Francis shared a look. And as much as she wished she didn’t, Claudine knew what that look meant.
“I don’t need to look at these,” Antonio tossed the folder into the air. Francis caught it elegantly. “I trust you, Francis.”
Francis bowed. “As you should.”
Claudine pushed her glasses up again. Mr. Wang wouldn’t be happy…
“And now…” Antonio bolted out of the spinning doors with only minor confusion. Claudine and Francis followed calmly after. By the time they were hit with the cool night breeze, Antonio was already a running dot on the edge of the block. “And now the knight escapes!”
Francis cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “He can never escape his cruel (but incredibly well-dressed) big brother’s mighty reach! The knight will return tomorrow for a delicious lunch prepared by his big brother’s sensitive hands!” Claudine had no idea why her boss encouraged Mr. Fernandez’s eccentricities, but he always had and probably always would so she accepted it as embarrassing fact.
Antonio’s voice echoed off the surrounding buildings and mingled with the sounds of the evening traffic. “You’ll never catch me, fiend! I’m riding away into the night on my shining steed! And is Gilbert coming? I haven’t seen him in a while; lunch sounds great!”
Something wasn’t quite right. “Antonio…” Francis’s forehead wrinkled then smoothed… of course! “Gallant knight! The train station is the other way!”
Two loose papers slipped out of the folder in Francis’s hand and fluttered to the ground. Just as Claudine bent to retrieve them, a quick shape began to barrel towards her. “If I was going to the train station…” the shape sped past, “that would have been really nice of you Francisssss,” the shape, or Antonio and his trusty bicycle, clattered off into the hazy, hectic, living night. With a last “Thanks!” he was finally gone.
“He never gets tired.”
Claudine stood, nothing in her posture betraying the fright Antonio’s ride past her had given her. “Of course he does. He slept through his last three meetings with you, Mr. Bonnefoy. And don’t you remember the evening security had to be called in, all because Mr. Hassan thought a transient was sleeping in the elevator?” Two steady fingers readjusted the bridge of her glasses on her nose.
Most Fragrant Rose of Summer [1d/?]
anonymous
December 23 2010, 08:50:26 UTC
She carefully offered her boss the two wayward forms. He calmly accepted them, set his hand in place on her shoulder and began to walk. “That was right before His Majesty’s Horses went to print, wasn’t it.” It was more of a light musing than a question.
“Yes.” Her hands went to her glasses again. They always did when she was tense. She hoped Mr. Bonnefoy hadn’t noticed. “Three days before.”
“His Majesty’s Horses is his best one yet, don’t you agree?” Of course he’d noticed. “The finest Antonio Fernandez Carriedo novel of passion, adventure and undying love to date.”
Claudine spoke before thinking, something she abhorred doing. Something she did all too often around Mr. Bonnefoy, much to her dismay. “Sunset on the Rhein was better.” She flushed. “I mean, ah… from a… literarystandpoint.”
Francis Bonnefoy raised a single, perfectly groomed eyebrow.
“Mr. Bonnefoy, I don’t see how this is relevant to your presentation.” If Antonio Fernandez Carriedo was the most optimistic man in the world, then Claudine Grimaldi was the world’s most worried woman. “If you don’t make a good impression on Mr. Wang… Mr. Fernandez is doing well, but… this company strives for excellence, and-”
“He’s an old friend.”
“Mr. Bonnefoy?” She made sure to say it as though she wasn’t curious.
“Did you know he used to write scripts?”
“…sir?”
“For soap operas.” Francis’s pace slowed to a casual walk. “Oh, his name was only ever in the fine print. His past employers never saw the potential of a young, handsome bachelor working on their team.” He stopped. “Really, Claudine, if I had been in charge I would have had him in front of those studio audiences faster than you can blink.” On reflex, Claudine closed her eyes. In the moment it took her to open them, Francis Bonnefoy’s hand had slipped from her shoulder to her waist.
“I believe that.” She stepped to the side, farther than Francis’s arm could extend. “Wholeheartedly.”
Francis cast his most imploring stare at his assistant: it fell short. “Oh fine…” but he was never one to dwell. “Gardens of Our Lives was the most famous project he worked on. He would have been perfectly cast as the naïve young Spanish ranch hand.” Francis resumed the walk to his car, his hand propelling his assistant forward.
Claudine blinked. She had every single episode, every single promotional poster that had been sold for Gardens of Our Lives in her living room at home. Every DVD box cover had a garden on the front, twisting green vines and bright red fruit. In the middle stood the heroine and her current love, surrounded by their friends and enemies. The naïve young Spanish ranch hand (first appearance: episode thirteen, last appearance: episode one hundred and ninety-four, number of lines: twelve) stood bare-chested in the lower left-hand corner. “I’ve. Oh, I’ve. I’ve never heard of that series before. Is it good?”
The soap opera scripts had fared much better than any of Antonio’s novels ever had; Francis had discretely gotten Claudine to compare the numbers after Antonio’s last book had been distributed. The television shows had been over ten times as popular, but, Francis reflected, romance novels didn’t tend to make bestseller lists. And the imagination’s actors were often less immediately tantalizing than half-naked men showing up dutifully in one’s living room every day at noon on the dot.
What was important was that Antonio was now the happiest Francis had ever seen him. Antonio had looked to his friends during his career’s most dismal hour, and Francis had been there. Had been a shining light, not unlike a soft white candle in a room full of trashy… trash. Well. Francis was not the writer, no indeed, that had always been Antonio. Antonio the writer, Francis the charmer and Gilbert the musician: the three had been an unstoppable force in their teens. No nearby heart had been safe. Even now, years later, Antonio hadn’t quite grown out of treating love as a game, as a quest, as some magical journey for his inner hero to cycle.
Most Fragrant Rose of Summer [1e/?]
anonymous
December 23 2010, 08:58:00 UTC
And cycle he did: Antonio always seemed to end up back where he started. Because no matter how much he believed otherwise, romance novels were not the ultimate solution to the flat, contrived plots and terrible clichés of the soap opera industry. As a businessman, Francis recognized this. As a friend, Francis recognized Antonio’s newfound joy. Francis would do what he had to in order to protect that. Through thick and thin and falling sales and absolutely ridiculous metaphors for sexual release (Francis had offered his own suggestions to improve Antonio’s phrasing. Antonio had politely declined), Francis would protect Antonio’s joy.
“It wasn’t quite good enough.”
He only hoped it would last.
When the rain started, Antonio looked up at the sky. It was darker than it usually was, the thick rainclouds absorbing even the harsh downtown lights. Antonio tried not to let them bother him and pedaled on. After the rain began to beat down faster, the darkness in the sky loomed over him, sending him a sign. Antonio nodded. And almost ran his bike into a lamppost.
But he didn’t and that was the important part.
“Who put that there…?” Out of shock, Antonio had forgotten about his bicycle’s actual braking system and had slammed both of his feet to the ground. The jolt had sent him staggering off the seat of his bike and into a large puddle.
The lamppost didn’t answer.
Antonio didn’t begrudge it that, because talking would be hard to do without a mouth. But he was still disappointed. “My socks are all wet now.” And he was far from home. He wasn’t lost, because he rarely ever got lost. He’d pedaled through this neighborhood once or twice before, exploring. But Antonio had never stopped, because whenever he’d passed through there hadn’t been very many people on the streets or in the shop windows. Without people a place was without inspiration, and inspiration was what Antonio was always searching for.
The rain fell.
“Maybe I should get inside.”
And Antonio continued to talk to himself. It wasn’t the worst of habits; it definitely wasn’t the strangest. But people tended to double-take once they noticed that, more often than not, Antonio wasn’t speaking to another person. He didn’t find anything wrong with thinking out loud, however, and Gilbert even said it was perfectly normal!
“Oh! That place looks nice!” ‘That place’ was a cheery little set of windows with a light blue awning. The sign over the door read Little Falcon Café in hand-painted script. The realistic portrait of a bird looked sharply down at anyone who dared to cross the café’s threshold. Antonio liked it. But when he walked his bike closer to the shop, he realized the lights he saw through the glass didn’t actually belong to the café: they came from the bookstore next door. The two were “connected inside! I bet they’re owned by the same person since the other sign looks the same. Contrasts… I like it too.”
Without another moment’s hesitation, Antonio propped his bike against the bookstore’s front window, held his scarf close against the wind, and reached for the door.
As a warning, Spain might be a little OOC in this story. I’m trying to make him as weird as possible while still keeping him him, but you know how that goes sometimes.
Claudine = Monaco
Next time: Antonio meets the cranky subject of his next book and Lovino meets an idiot.
Second to last note: the title is both a reference (although not the most literal of translations) and a promise of things to come.
Last note: concrit is completely welcome. Whether it’s ‘your characterization of XXXX feels off because…’ or ‘I don’t think inconceivable means what you think it means.’
Re: Most Fragrant Rose of Summer [1e/?]
anonymous
December 23 2010, 12:05:13 UTC
Well, Spain is pretty weird! (Even though he just wants you to buy Volume 3!) I think he's pretty in-character. I wouldn't put talking to himself or writing horrendous metaphors past him. Besides, it's an AU, and it's possible that their background would have changed the way they see things, even ever so slightly.
Your writing is lovely, and I'm really looking forward to the next parts <3 And I kind of want to see more of Monaco and France because they're adorable.
OP is in love!
anonymous
December 24 2010, 00:38:46 UTC
Author-anon... I love this so goddamn much, I actually need a few minutes to gather my thoughts, since momentarily they're all like "JESUS CHRIST, THIS IS SOOOOOOOO GOOD GOD I LOVE LOVE LOVE THIS IS THE BEST THING I'VE EVER READ..." and so on.
First of all: You've probably just written my most favourite Antonio ever. Eccentric suits him like a suit just soooo well and he's downright adorable (which is to say, even loads more adorable than he usually is). If he was real, I'd probably fall in love with him on first sight.
Then there's Francis and Claudine (and mentions of Gilbert and Yao) - First of all, I've never read anything about Monaco and now I'm really curious. The way you write her, I already like her big times. She and Francis make a very good team. I also love the fact that you brought the BTT into the story. Gilbert as a musician is always incredibly awesome xD I now feel the need to go listen to his chara-songs again. You have such a great way of characterizing all those different characters and let them interact with each other. It really brings your story to life (along with the breath-takingly awesome writing-style, that is!). I am so glad you chose to fill my request! Thank you so so much! This is already one of the best fills I've ever read and it's only the first chapter. Needless to say, I'll be eagerly awaiting the next chapter and I'll leave you lots and lots of love in hope you'll be fuelled by it xD
Most Fragrant Rose of Summer [2a/?]
anonymous
December 29 2010, 05:45:01 UTC
The bookstore’s glass door had a light pink rose painted on it, green stem and leaves spiraling outward. Antonio could tell from the careful brushstrokes that it was done by the same sure hand as the falcon over the café’s entrance. Impressed by the level of artistry, he put a hand on the door’s brass handle, paused to admire it’s craftsmanship, and pushed. A light tingle cascaded over his head and Antonio looked up. There were three silver bells over the door: brushwork roses, brass doorknobs and bells greeting him with a chime… Antonio decided he needed to visit this shop more often, even though he’d only spent all of two seconds inside it. That didn’t matter. It had a good atmosphere.
He bet whoever owned Contrasts was a romantic at heart. And he instantly approved.
“Shut the door if you’re coming in already.”
…a romantic who employed slightly rude cashiers, but it was a little late and it was more than a little dismal outside. Antonio swept his annoyance into the far corner of his mind to mellow down into the contentment he normally showed the rest of the world. Maybe the cashier had had a bad day. Maybe his wife had left him for his cousin. Yeah! If something like that happened to him, Antonio might snap at strangers too! “Alright!”
He shut the door behind him with a chime and a slam, winced apologetically, and stepped further into the store.
The cashier, one eye on the customer buying books in front of him, the other on the customer dripping all over everything, frowned. Antonio didn’t think he’d met anyone who frowned so actively before. Not even Ludwig. Deciding that some people really needed to relax more, he took another step forward. There were hand-painted signs at the end of all the bookshelves and at the openings of curious little alcoves. The signs had little pictures to match their captions: ‘Mysteries!’ had a magnifying glass and dark footprints, ‘Romance ♥’ had a man and a woman staring into each others’ eyes. Every new detail Antonio noticed about Contrasts was something he liked, from the signs to the random piles of thick books scattered around the cashier’s desk to the small coziness of it all.
Antonio could fall in love with a store like this. Fully ready to embrace that love, he took another step. And slipped, comically, one foot flying into the air the other twisting beneath him, until he was a mess of books and limbs on the floor. Antonio realized what the cashier had been frowning about when he felt the puddle he’d made, and slipped in, cooling his abused face on the bookstore’s hardwood floor. “…I’m okay!”
The other customer bit his lip. “Are you sure?”
Antonio couldn’t feel his spine. “Definitely.”
“Oh.” The other customer didn’t seem satisfied by the answer, but also didn’t seem too troubled by it. He pulled at his collar instead and resumed his conversation with the cashier. “Can’t you give me a discount?”
“No.”
The customer sighed. “…Lovino.”
Lovino rolled his eyes and pulled the customer’s three books closer, just out of reach. “I can’t and I won’t, Ari. So stop asking: either pay for them or go away. It’s almost closing time.” Lovino sounded disgusted to still be working when it was almost closing time. Antonio was intrigued; Francis often sounded the same way when Antonio went to visit him at his office.
Ari opened his mouth. And closed it again. Antonio stood up in the quick silence that passed, but neither Ari nor Lovino noticed him. He didn’t really mind. His mind was too busy to mind, because he recognized two of the three books on the counter: he’d written them.
“…I’ll take this one then.” Ari quickly grabbed the thickest book, a copy of The Iliad, and slid it towards his chest, protectively. Lovino coughed. With his other hand, Ari reluctantly released a few crumpled Euros and two stray silver coins. Lovino frowned again. Ari, with even more reluctance, reached into his pants pocket for the last few necessary coins. “I don’t really need to read those other two. They were… they were for…” he stepped away from the desk quickly, “they weren’t for me.”
Most Fragrant Rose of Summer [2b/?]
anonymous
December 29 2010, 05:52:55 UTC
Were they gifts then? Antonio was overjoyed to hear that everyday people thought his books were good gift-giving material. Did people normally give romance novels as presents? Oh, that wasn’t important. What mattered was that the other customer, this ‘Ari,’ hadn’t been buying… Antonio craned his neck to see the titles and cover illustrations better… he hadn’t been buying His Majesty’s Horses and Sunset on the Rhein for himself. So he might not know Antonio’s face by sight. Antonio wasn’t as worried about the cashier: even though he was extra grumpy, he was still a book person. And book people were really good at protecting the identities of other book people.
Lovino picked up a brown paper bag from under his desk and lobbed it at Ari, before frowning again. “Weren’t for you?” Antonio noticed that Lovino frowned a lot. He wondered if it was a condition. “More like ‘aren’t for anyone.’ You’re better off spending your money on something that isn’t trash.”
Antonio tapped his ears, just to make sure they were working properly. He didn’t understand. Did this cashier… but wasn’t he a book person?
“…they’re not that bad.” Antonio would have said something a little bit more like ‘they’re really really really good’ but Ari was defending him so who was Antonio to complain? “At least you always know what’s going to happen in the end.”
“Yeah, sure,” Ari edged towards the door, book safely under his arm. Lovino, caught in his rant, didn’t appear to notice. Antonio was beginning to suspect something was wrong. …maybe those books were written by somebody else and only conveniently had the same titles and covers? “You know that the idiotic hero is going to sweep the moronic heroine off her feet for no goddamn good reason. And then they’ll ride off into the sunset or some stupid shit like that.”
Ari didn’t answer: three silvery chimes noted his escape. Which left Antonio alone with, “are you just going to stand there or are you going to buy something?”
Antonio ignored him and picked up the copy of Sunset on the Rhein from the desk. He turned to the first page. ‘…written by Antonio Fernandez Carriedo,’ alright these were definitely his books. Then what could possibly be wrong with them?
“Hey, I’ll save you the trouble.” Lovino reached for the book. “It’s just another crappy romance novel. They’re all the same. Actually, no, Antonio Fernandez Carriedo’s are the worst.” Antonio froze. Did this… did this mean Lovino didn’t like his stories? “Take the one you’re holding, for example.”
Antonio pulled back. “I’ve read it.” Of course he’d read it. He’d written it. “I thought it was really good.”
Lovino raised an eyebrow, as though he couldn’t believe anyone would willingly read something Antonio had written. “I can’t believe anyone would willingly read something this guy’s written.”
“Why?”
“The plots, if you can even call them that, are disgustingly unrealistic, even for a romance novel.” Lovino picked up His Majesty’s Horses and absentmindedly lobbed it over towards the ‘Romance ♥’ section. Antonio felt like someone had just thrown one of his children against a wall. He suppressed a whimper. “Like the way the hero won over the duchess in that one?” He nodded towards Sunset on the Rhein. “All he did was have a swordfight with her brother. What the hell, that magically made her fall in love with him? She should have gotten out while she still could and the bastard was stuck in jail. Who sings love poems in the middle of a fuc- fuh- a fight anyway?”
…Ludwig had said that had been a nice gesture, before they had broken up. Sure, he’d also said that Antonio and Gilbert had no need to fight, and had looked really scary when he’d found out that Antonio and Gil had borrowed some of his antique broadswords to use for their match, but he’d liked the poetry. Being called an apple-love strudel was romantic. Wasn’t it? Suddenly, Antonio needed to check. “But don’t you think it was romantic? When Carlos called Luise his apple-love strudel?” Gilbert had been really impressed by that line at the time, even if it had been directed at his little brother.
Most Fragrant Rose of Summer [2c/?]
anonymous
December 29 2010, 06:01:16 UTC
Lovino Vargas wondered, not for the first time in his life, why all the good-looking ones were idiots. Himself excluded, of course. “Are you serious?” The good-looking idiot standing in front of him didn’t look serious so much as he looked slightly heartbroken. It was probably prolonged contact with the literary trash he was cradling in his arms.
“Yes.”
Dear God, Lovino hoped the man was joking. Maybe it was a sick form of flirting: ‘pretend to like the things the object of your affection hates with the deepest fiber of his being.’ …with a face like that, Lovino would play along. “So I bet you liked when the cowboy in that one,” Lovino pointed at the book he’d thrown, “made sweet passionate love to the Spanish princess, on a horse, in the middle of a field of flowers?”
The potential (not if he didn’t fucking buy anything in the next five minutes) customer scratched the back of his head. “That’s actually really hard to do, did you know?”
Lovino didn’t. And he didn’t want to. “Look, it’s a quarter past six already. If you’re going to buy something then buy something. Otherwise,” 'I’m going to have to ask you and your perfect smile to come upstairs and fuck me against my personal collection' no he couldn’t say that, fuck what was he thinking, this guy liked the Fernandez stuff. And Lovino had standards. “Otherwise I’m going to have to ask you to come back tomorrow. I open at nine.”
He’d meant to say ‘we open at nine.’ Maybe.
“You?”
If Lovino’s chest puffed up a little at his answer, then it deserved to. He was proud of his store, even if he hadn’t started it, despite all the little touches that made it look as though Feli ran the place. “I own this place with my brother. But he only takes care of the café side.”
Antonio couldn’t believe it. “You do?” But if that was true, then Lovino was more than just a cranky bookselling cashier: he was a cranky bookselling bookstore owner, and Antonio was swiftly coming to the conclusion that Lovino might not even believe in the power of love. And Antonio couldn’t let that happen. Even if Lovino was grumpy, and even if he frowned too much, he was kind of cute in his own way. Antonio would do him a favor, from one book person to another: he would write Lovino the best romance that had yet to ever happen to him. And he would make it last. “What I meant was, I think I’ll come back tomorrow. Will you be here?”
Lovino fidgeted. This guy didn’t know how to ask somebody out properly; first he was roundabout and then he was forward? But Lovino found himself blushing anyway. He felt like one of the girls in a Fernandez book. It made him uncomfortable. “It’s not like there’s anybody else…”
“I’ll come back tomorrow then!” Antonio carefully set the copy of Sunset on the Rhein back onto Lovino’s desk and prepared to leave. He wasn’t looking forward to riding home in the rain, but hopefully the start of a new story would warm him as he went. He wondered where he would find the right person for Lovino. Maybe Lovino already had another customer who came by often, too shy to speak up? And they always looked at each other but never spoke? Maybe this time, with Antonio there to lend his expertise, they would connect; there was already a café right next door where the mystery woman could spill her coffee all over Lovino’s shirt or where the mystery man could catch Lovino when he accidentally fell. It was perfect!
The customer started laughing to himself. Lovino would have been concerned if he hadn’t spent all his energy working up his courage to ask “What’s your name?”
Antonio spun around, confused. How did Lovino not know? And then it clicked: Lovino didn’t like his books. Lovino didn’t like love stories. It followed that Lovino didn’t know who Antonio was, the heavens must have ordered it, so Antonio could help Lovino find his own happy ending. Otherwise Lovino would be too busy grumpily protesting to properly fall in love! “I’m…A-ah, oh. You can,” Antonio realized it wouldn’t be very nice to the heavens to undo all of their difficult work. He couldn’t go and tell Lovino who he was. “You can call me Gilbert.”
Most Fragrant Rose of Summer [2d + AN/?]
anonymous
December 29 2010, 06:07:41 UTC
He winked. Lovino forgot to breathe (‘I’m not this easy, it’s just been a really long time, I’m not this easy, I’m not…’).
“Oh, and by the way, do you sell journals?”
Lovino nodded wordlessly, and pointed at a small display sitting in front of the ‘Historical Fiction’ section. Hand-bound journals of all sizes and types were fanned out in an appealing swath of color. Some looked like they were bound in leather; others in decorative paper. Each was unique. “Feli, my brother, makes them in his spare time.” Because Feli was a bastard like that, and even though he woke up at six every day to start cooking, he still managed to find the time to make journals and re-bind Grandpa’s collection of old books and paint fucking masterpieces and have a social life and fuck his wife… and still be a lazy dumbshit whenever Lovino needed him to do something important.
Antonio could barely breathe in delight. The journals fit the store like a tailor-made suit; they would be just right for Antonio’s newest novel, starring a bitter bookstore owner who didn’t believe in love. The details would come later, as long as Antonio already had the mood. “They’re beautiful… See you tomorrow Lovino!” Without waiting for a reply he ran out into the rain. He’d need a lot of sleep in order to be fresh and ready and outside the bookstore’s glass door at eight thirty the next morning.
And they meet! Lovino already thinks Antonio has a thing for him; Antonio already thinks Lovino needs a visit from the Loooooove Doctor. But what does Feliciano think of all this???
Ari = Iceland
1non: I’d buy every copy if he’d hand-deliver them. You do have a point, people and characters are shaped by their experiences and in an AU those experiences are obviously different. I just want to make sure I don’t get too crazy in making him… crazy. Thank you very much! Monaco and France will return, although the focus there will be more on France.
OP: I’m really happy you liked this!!! Especially happy that you like him good and eccentric, because I think it fits him a lot. mmmmmm suits. And I’m glad you liked Monaco in there; I wasn’t sure about her at first, but in the end it was pretty fun playing her off France. In a way, they’re another version of ‘boss and his henchman.’ But France-ier. Yes. And there can never be too much BFT. Failtastic bros come best in threes. Lots and lots and zounds and a zillion pounds of love back to you OP! Thank you!
Re: Most Fragrant Rose of Summer [2d + AN/?]
anonymous
December 29 2010, 10:50:54 UTC
Authournon, this... this reader is looking forward to see where you go with this fic. It seems very interesting so far. :) This anon is as enthusiastic as all the other commenters, really, but it is the first time anon has delurked to comment on a fic as well as the first time anon has read a fic that has references to past pairings that are not the main pairing and anon never thought anon would read a fic with those but anon likes authournon's writing so much and loves the use of less popular countries/characters it's all really awesome and anon will shut up now. But anon loves your writing, really. And anon also really likes the fact that Spain isn't completely lovestruck by Romano the first time they meet and authournon's characterization of Spain in general, actually, and the humour in the narration and-
...Anon will leave it as anon likes a lot about authournon's writing. (and will shut up now, anon promises. Unless authournon doesn't mind? Because-)
Re: Most Fragrant Rose of Summer [2d + AN/?]
anonymous
December 29 2010, 11:18:43 UTC
I'm looking forward to more!
And I'm another fan of Monaco and France.
Nothing too original to say, since someone already did a keysmashPTGHMJSRFPHIJSKB (anything else I have at the back of the mind can be said at a more appropriate time).
I have to admit I steer clear of most romance novels. And yet I read "romantic" fanfiction on the internet. Thank you for being anonymous, kink meme.
“As soon as you finish you may go.”
Gold burned into red faded into violet night, smeared across the sky. The bands of color sewed the jagged city skyline and the heavens together with imperceptibly fine stiches. The first three stars began to sparkle. Underneath, the city sparkled too.
“It will be difficult for you to leave after I lock my door behind me.”
It was never fully dark in the city. But now, at sunset, when the natural light balanced the glimmer and shine of the manmade signs… now the city came alive. Or. The city was always alive, really. It was always alive, its heart was always beating, but the city fell in love when the sun began to set. The light from the setting sun made for the best love story in the world.
“Claudine, dearest Claudine, if you’re still out there when I open this door I’ll be very disappointed in you.”
Or was anything truly alive if it wasn’t in love?
“Mr. Bonnefoy, please. I need to finish this report for Mr. Wang. There are only two weeks until your presentation!”
Face and hands suspended in the air a centimeter away from one of the office’s two walls of glass, Antonio Fernandez Carriedo looked down upon the world and smiled. It was a world full of light and sound, full of hurry and scurry and chance and happenstance. And love. And it would only be his world for a few minutes more.
“Toni… if you don’t hurry I’ll lock you in. And the only foods I have left in here are a packet of Gilbert’s crackers and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. The latter is an 1837. I’d hate to waste it.”
Antonio finally pulled his attention away from the sinking sun. “Huh? Francis…?” His friend and agent stood at the opposite end of the room, long dark coat already on. He even had a finger poised over the light switch. “What were you saying?”
Francis Bonnefoy, millionaire and miracle worker, leaned against one of his thick office doors and shaded his eyes. The view from his office was spectacular, certainly, but at times like these it was also blinding. The glare of the sun seemed to reflect every other bit of metal and glass in the city and pointed all their brightness onto a point a little to the left of Francis’s desk. Francis generally took the focused rays as a sign to stop working; Antonio took them as a sign to continue burning his retinas. “I was saying how tragic it is that Gilbert will never be able to finish his snacks. And if I remember correctly, he was very fond of them. Claudine!”
A smaller, dutiful silhouette appeared at the door. Antonio couldn’t see her face because he couldn’t see much after staring into the sun for so long, but he didn’t need to see to recognize Francis’s personal assistant. Claudine Grimaldi radiated competent worry in the same way Francis radiated confident whimsy. It was unmistakable.
“Mr. Bonnefoy?”
Francis placed one hand on his assistant’s blouse and let one side of his mouth quirk up just so. “Claudine, my dear, my light!”
Claudine didn’t flinch. Antonio assumed she had gotten used to it: in that, she was doing much better than any of Francis’s other assistants had done. “Mr. Bonnefoy, the report. Mr. Wang will not wait.”
Mr. Wang… the name sounded familiar to Antonio. “Francis, isn’t that the-”
Francis dismissed Antonio with a wave and continued to speak. “Claudine, special order three more boxes of Mr. Beilschmidt’s favorite crackers. I want them delivered by noon tomorrow, Gilbert will most likely come in by then. If Antonio is locked in here all night I don’t know how else he will possibly survive, other than to eat me out of office and home.” Claudine did not roll her eyes. Professionals did not roll their eyes, even when their bosses were being particularly ridiculous. “After that you may go, dear. In fact, I insist you let me drive you home.” He winked.
Professionals couldn’t help but roll their eyes when their bosses were being particularly flirtatious. “Yes sir.”
“Fantastic.”
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Francis, interrupted from watching his personal assistant attempt to cram three more hours of work into ‘just one more minute Mr. Bonnefoy,’ tapped the side of his cheek in thought. “But I’m leaving now and you haven’t even picked up your things. Really, Antonio, I have no idea how you won’t be trapped here.”
Antonio blinked. Five seconds later he had a red and yellow striped scarf more-or-less thrown across his shoulders and a thick, new folder dangling from one hand. He jumped through the office doors before Francis even had time to flick off the lights. “What about now?”
“Just a minute, Mr. Bonnefoy!”
Francis shut his office door at the same time the sun abandoned the world. With as much ceremony as he felt the action deserved, Francis produced an intricately designed golden key and turned it twice in the door’s lock. Once his task was finished he threw up both of his hands in lighthearted surrender. “Now you don’t have to stay. That was a narrow escape Toni.”
Antonio nodded. “It was. I wouldn’t be very happy stuck at work all night long.”
Keys clicked and fingers flew at a desk several feet away. “Th-three more seconds, sir. That’s all I need to finish this report. Three more seconds. Minutes.”
With Antonio finally ready to leave, Francis stepped jauntily towards his assistant’s desk. A charming smile in place, he leaned over Claudine’s nameplate, settled his face near her right ear, and gleefully kicked her power strip’s cord out of the wall. Her computer screen went black. Her desk lamp went dark. Her face went still. Francis congratulated himself inwardly. “Come my dear, your coach awaits.”
From his vantage point several feet away, Antonio was torn between clapping and grabbing his notebook from his back pocket. He settled on the latter, because when Francis was good he was a genius and Antonio hated letting little bits and pieces like this slip from between his fingers. While Claudine spluttered and Francis winked, Antonio began to take haphazard notes.
He didn’t stop until a light touch on his shoulder interrupted him. “Toni.”
boss and secretary, wanton work romance, forbidden love, duty and freedom, class differences, who’s tapping my shoulde- Antonio’s pen slid across the surface of his small journal. “Are you already done?”
Francis gestured towards the elevator. Antonio didn’t remember when it had been called or when it had arrived, but Claudine was already in it so those both must have happened a few minutes earlier. Oh. “Antonio.” The two began to walk. Francis didn’t remove his hand. “You haven’t gotten a new notebook yet? I know I’ve seen that one before.”
“I haven’t found the right one. This is my backup.” Antonio looked back at the empty executive offices on the fifty-third floor. Funny, usually Francis was the first to leave, not the last. Antonio wondered where the publishing firm’s other important people were. Perhaps they were already off enjoying the night. “Once I find the right story then I’ll find the right notebook, and then I’ll have my next book!” It was a simple system: whenever Antonio felt he’d found the inspiration for his newest novel, he bought a fresh notebook. The type mattered. It had to be small enough to fit in his pocket; otherwise he’d never remember to keep it with him. It had to have enough pages to contain an entire romance. It had to suit the story.
It had to suit the person Antonio wanted to fall in love.
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And once they read his books they would. He was certain of that.
The elevator chimed when it settled at the ground level. It chimed again when the doors opened. Francis spoke as he helped Claudine into the lobby. “I can barely wait.” Antonio waved to the security guards, and tucked his book back into his pocket. He had seen Francis accompany many women on walks before. There was nothing he could base a tale on here. “And, although I hate to say it,” Francis paused just short of the front entrance. Antonio didn’t, but his scarf got caught up in the revolving doors just long enough for Francis’s words to grab his attention. “I truly hate saying it, but others at this company will not wait at all.”
One, two tugs were all Antonio needed to free his scarf and stumble back. But something about Francis’s words didn’t make any sense. “Because they really like my novels?”
When Francis didn’t speak, Claudine reluctantly answered. “Mr. Fernandez, you have two months until your next draft is due. The folder Mr. Bonnefoy gave you earlier tonight outlines your deadlines and the sales of your last book. Please read every document carefully, and feel free to call me with any concerns,” she adjusted her wire-frame glasses, “or I can schedule you an appointment with Mr. Bonnefoy,” Francis perked up, “but only on the condition that Mr. Bonnefoy has no other matters to attend to.”
Antonio and Francis shared a look. And as much as she wished she didn’t, Claudine knew what that look meant.
“I don’t need to look at these,” Antonio tossed the folder into the air. Francis caught it elegantly. “I trust you, Francis.”
Francis bowed. “As you should.”
Claudine pushed her glasses up again. Mr. Wang wouldn’t be happy…
“And now…” Antonio bolted out of the spinning doors with only minor confusion. Claudine and Francis followed calmly after. By the time they were hit with the cool night breeze, Antonio was already a running dot on the edge of the block. “And now the knight escapes!”
Francis cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “He can never escape his cruel (but incredibly well-dressed) big brother’s mighty reach! The knight will return tomorrow for a delicious lunch prepared by his big brother’s sensitive hands!” Claudine had no idea why her boss encouraged Mr. Fernandez’s eccentricities, but he always had and probably always would so she accepted it as embarrassing fact.
Antonio’s voice echoed off the surrounding buildings and mingled with the sounds of the evening traffic. “You’ll never catch me, fiend! I’m riding away into the night on my shining steed! And is Gilbert coming? I haven’t seen him in a while; lunch sounds great!”
Something wasn’t quite right. “Antonio…” Francis’s forehead wrinkled then smoothed… of course! “Gallant knight! The train station is the other way!”
Two loose papers slipped out of the folder in Francis’s hand and fluttered to the ground. Just as Claudine bent to retrieve them, a quick shape began to barrel towards her. “If I was going to the train station…” the shape sped past, “that would have been really nice of you Francisssss,” the shape, or Antonio and his trusty bicycle, clattered off into the hazy, hectic, living night. With a last “Thanks!” he was finally gone.
“He never gets tired.”
Claudine stood, nothing in her posture betraying the fright Antonio’s ride past her had given her. “Of course he does. He slept through his last three meetings with you, Mr. Bonnefoy. And don’t you remember the evening security had to be called in, all because Mr. Hassan thought a transient was sleeping in the elevator?” Two steady fingers readjusted the bridge of her glasses on her nose.
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“Yes.” Her hands went to her glasses again. They always did when she was tense. She hoped Mr. Bonnefoy hadn’t noticed. “Three days before.”
“His Majesty’s Horses is his best one yet, don’t you agree?” Of course he’d noticed. “The finest Antonio Fernandez Carriedo novel of passion, adventure and undying love to date.”
Claudine spoke before thinking, something she abhorred doing. Something she did all too often around Mr. Bonnefoy, much to her dismay. “Sunset on the Rhein was better.” She flushed. “I mean, ah… from a… literarystandpoint.”
Francis Bonnefoy raised a single, perfectly groomed eyebrow.
“Mr. Bonnefoy, I don’t see how this is relevant to your presentation.” If Antonio Fernandez Carriedo was the most optimistic man in the world, then Claudine Grimaldi was the world’s most worried woman. “If you don’t make a good impression on Mr. Wang… Mr. Fernandez is doing well, but… this company strives for excellence, and-”
“He’s an old friend.”
“Mr. Bonnefoy?” She made sure to say it as though she wasn’t curious.
“Did you know he used to write scripts?”
“…sir?”
“For soap operas.” Francis’s pace slowed to a casual walk. “Oh, his name was only ever in the fine print. His past employers never saw the potential of a young, handsome bachelor working on their team.” He stopped. “Really, Claudine, if I had been in charge I would have had him in front of those studio audiences faster than you can blink.” On reflex, Claudine closed her eyes. In the moment it took her to open them, Francis Bonnefoy’s hand had slipped from her shoulder to her waist.
“I believe that.” She stepped to the side, farther than Francis’s arm could extend. “Wholeheartedly.”
Francis cast his most imploring stare at his assistant: it fell short. “Oh fine…” but he was never one to dwell. “Gardens of Our Lives was the most famous project he worked on. He would have been perfectly cast as the naïve young Spanish ranch hand.” Francis resumed the walk to his car, his hand propelling his assistant forward.
Claudine blinked. She had every single episode, every single promotional poster that had been sold for Gardens of Our Lives in her living room at home. Every DVD box cover had a garden on the front, twisting green vines and bright red fruit. In the middle stood the heroine and her current love, surrounded by their friends and enemies. The naïve young Spanish ranch hand (first appearance: episode thirteen, last appearance: episode one hundred and ninety-four, number of lines: twelve) stood bare-chested in the lower left-hand corner. “I’ve. Oh, I’ve. I’ve never heard of that series before. Is it good?”
The soap opera scripts had fared much better than any of Antonio’s novels ever had; Francis had discretely gotten Claudine to compare the numbers after Antonio’s last book had been distributed. The television shows had been over ten times as popular, but, Francis reflected, romance novels didn’t tend to make bestseller lists. And the imagination’s actors were often less immediately tantalizing than half-naked men showing up dutifully in one’s living room every day at noon on the dot.
What was important was that Antonio was now the happiest Francis had ever seen him. Antonio had looked to his friends during his career’s most dismal hour, and Francis had been there. Had been a shining light, not unlike a soft white candle in a room full of trashy… trash. Well. Francis was not the writer, no indeed, that had always been Antonio. Antonio the writer, Francis the charmer and Gilbert the musician: the three had been an unstoppable force in their teens. No nearby heart had been safe. Even now, years later, Antonio hadn’t quite grown out of treating love as a game, as a quest, as some magical journey for his inner hero to cycle.
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“It wasn’t quite good enough.”
He only hoped it would last.
When the rain started, Antonio looked up at the sky. It was darker than it usually was, the thick rainclouds absorbing even the harsh downtown lights. Antonio tried not to let them bother him and pedaled on. After the rain began to beat down faster, the darkness in the sky loomed over him, sending him a sign. Antonio nodded. And almost ran his bike into a lamppost.
But he didn’t and that was the important part.
“Who put that there…?” Out of shock, Antonio had forgotten about his bicycle’s actual braking system and had slammed both of his feet to the ground. The jolt had sent him staggering off the seat of his bike and into a large puddle.
The lamppost didn’t answer.
Antonio didn’t begrudge it that, because talking would be hard to do without a mouth. But he was still disappointed. “My socks are all wet now.” And he was far from home. He wasn’t lost, because he rarely ever got lost. He’d pedaled through this neighborhood once or twice before, exploring. But Antonio had never stopped, because whenever he’d passed through there hadn’t been very many people on the streets or in the shop windows. Without people a place was without inspiration, and inspiration was what Antonio was always searching for.
The rain fell.
“Maybe I should get inside.”
And Antonio continued to talk to himself. It wasn’t the worst of habits; it definitely wasn’t the strangest. But people tended to double-take once they noticed that, more often than not, Antonio wasn’t speaking to another person. He didn’t find anything wrong with thinking out loud, however, and Gilbert even said it was perfectly normal!
“Oh! That place looks nice!” ‘That place’ was a cheery little set of windows with a light blue awning. The sign over the door read Little Falcon Café in hand-painted script. The realistic portrait of a bird looked sharply down at anyone who dared to cross the café’s threshold. Antonio liked it. But when he walked his bike closer to the shop, he realized the lights he saw through the glass didn’t actually belong to the café: they came from the bookstore next door. The two were “connected inside! I bet they’re owned by the same person since the other sign looks the same. Contrasts… I like it too.”
Without another moment’s hesitation, Antonio propped his bike against the bookstore’s front window, held his scarf close against the wind, and reached for the door.
As a warning, Spain might be a little OOC in this story. I’m trying to make him as weird as possible while still keeping him him, but you know how that goes sometimes.
Claudine = Monaco
Next time: Antonio meets the cranky subject of his next book and Lovino meets an idiot.
Second to last note: the title is both a reference (although not the most literal of translations) and a promise of things to come.
Last note: concrit is completely welcome. Whether it’s ‘your characterization of XXXX feels off because…’ or ‘I don’t think inconceivable means what you think it means.’
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Your writing is lovely, and I'm really looking forward to the next parts <3 And I kind of want to see more of Monaco and France because they're adorable.
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First of all: You've probably just written my most favourite Antonio ever. Eccentric suits him like a suit just soooo well and he's downright adorable (which is to say, even loads more adorable than he usually is). If he was real, I'd probably fall in love with him on first sight.
Then there's Francis and Claudine (and mentions of Gilbert and Yao) - First of all, I've never read anything about Monaco and now I'm really curious. The way you write her, I already like her big times. She and Francis make a very good team. I also love the fact that you brought the BTT into the story. Gilbert as a musician is always incredibly awesome xD I now feel the need to go listen to his chara-songs again.
You have such a great way of characterizing all those different characters and let them interact with each other. It really brings your story to life (along with the breath-takingly awesome writing-style, that is!). I am so glad you chose to fill my request! Thank you so so much! This is already one of the best fills I've ever read and it's only the first chapter. Needless to say, I'll be eagerly awaiting the next chapter and I'll leave you lots and lots of love in hope you'll be fuelled by it xD
~and in-love OP
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just
♥
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He bet whoever owned Contrasts was a romantic at heart. And he instantly approved.
“Shut the door if you’re coming in already.”
…a romantic who employed slightly rude cashiers, but it was a little late and it was more than a little dismal outside. Antonio swept his annoyance into the far corner of his mind to mellow down into the contentment he normally showed the rest of the world. Maybe the cashier had had a bad day. Maybe his wife had left him for his cousin. Yeah! If something like that happened to him, Antonio might snap at strangers too! “Alright!”
He shut the door behind him with a chime and a slam, winced apologetically, and stepped further into the store.
The cashier, one eye on the customer buying books in front of him, the other on the customer dripping all over everything, frowned. Antonio didn’t think he’d met anyone who frowned so actively before. Not even Ludwig. Deciding that some people really needed to relax more, he took another step forward. There were hand-painted signs at the end of all the bookshelves and at the openings of curious little alcoves. The signs had little pictures to match their captions: ‘Mysteries!’ had a magnifying glass and dark footprints, ‘Romance ♥’ had a man and a woman staring into each others’ eyes. Every new detail Antonio noticed about Contrasts was something he liked, from the signs to the random piles of thick books scattered around the cashier’s desk to the small coziness of it all.
Antonio could fall in love with a store like this. Fully ready to embrace that love, he took another step. And slipped, comically, one foot flying into the air the other twisting beneath him, until he was a mess of books and limbs on the floor. Antonio realized what the cashier had been frowning about when he felt the puddle he’d made, and slipped in, cooling his abused face on the bookstore’s hardwood floor. “…I’m okay!”
The other customer bit his lip. “Are you sure?”
Antonio couldn’t feel his spine. “Definitely.”
“Oh.” The other customer didn’t seem satisfied by the answer, but also didn’t seem too troubled by it. He pulled at his collar instead and resumed his conversation with the cashier. “Can’t you give me a discount?”
“No.”
The customer sighed. “…Lovino.”
Lovino rolled his eyes and pulled the customer’s three books closer, just out of reach. “I can’t and I won’t, Ari. So stop asking: either pay for them or go away. It’s almost closing time.” Lovino sounded disgusted to still be working when it was almost closing time. Antonio was intrigued; Francis often sounded the same way when Antonio went to visit him at his office.
Ari opened his mouth. And closed it again. Antonio stood up in the quick silence that passed, but neither Ari nor Lovino noticed him. He didn’t really mind. His mind was too busy to mind, because he recognized two of the three books on the counter: he’d written them.
“…I’ll take this one then.” Ari quickly grabbed the thickest book, a copy of The Iliad, and slid it towards his chest, protectively. Lovino coughed. With his other hand, Ari reluctantly released a few crumpled Euros and two stray silver coins. Lovino frowned again. Ari, with even more reluctance, reached into his pants pocket for the last few necessary coins. “I don’t really need to read those other two. They were… they were for…” he stepped away from the desk quickly, “they weren’t for me.”
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Lovino picked up a brown paper bag from under his desk and lobbed it at Ari, before frowning again. “Weren’t for you?” Antonio noticed that Lovino frowned a lot. He wondered if it was a condition. “More like ‘aren’t for anyone.’ You’re better off spending your money on something that isn’t trash.”
Antonio tapped his ears, just to make sure they were working properly. He didn’t understand. Did this cashier… but wasn’t he a book person?
“…they’re not that bad.” Antonio would have said something a little bit more like ‘they’re really really really good’ but Ari was defending him so who was Antonio to complain? “At least you always know what’s going to happen in the end.”
“Yeah, sure,” Ari edged towards the door, book safely under his arm. Lovino, caught in his rant, didn’t appear to notice. Antonio was beginning to suspect something was wrong. …maybe those books were written by somebody else and only conveniently had the same titles and covers? “You know that the idiotic hero is going to sweep the moronic heroine off her feet for no goddamn good reason. And then they’ll ride off into the sunset or some stupid shit like that.”
Ari didn’t answer: three silvery chimes noted his escape. Which left Antonio alone with, “are you just going to stand there or are you going to buy something?”
Antonio ignored him and picked up the copy of Sunset on the Rhein from the desk. He turned to the first page. ‘…written by Antonio Fernandez Carriedo,’ alright these were definitely his books. Then what could possibly be wrong with them?
“Hey, I’ll save you the trouble.” Lovino reached for the book. “It’s just another crappy romance novel. They’re all the same. Actually, no, Antonio Fernandez Carriedo’s are the worst.” Antonio froze. Did this… did this mean Lovino didn’t like his stories? “Take the one you’re holding, for example.”
Antonio pulled back. “I’ve read it.” Of course he’d read it. He’d written it. “I thought it was really good.”
Lovino raised an eyebrow, as though he couldn’t believe anyone would willingly read something Antonio had written. “I can’t believe anyone would willingly read something this guy’s written.”
“Why?”
“The plots, if you can even call them that, are disgustingly unrealistic, even for a romance novel.” Lovino picked up His Majesty’s Horses and absentmindedly lobbed it over towards the ‘Romance ♥’ section. Antonio felt like someone had just thrown one of his children against a wall. He suppressed a whimper. “Like the way the hero won over the duchess in that one?” He nodded towards Sunset on the Rhein. “All he did was have a swordfight with her brother. What the hell, that magically made her fall in love with him? She should have gotten out while she still could and the bastard was stuck in jail. Who sings love poems in the middle of a fuc- fuh- a fight anyway?”
…Ludwig had said that had been a nice gesture, before they had broken up. Sure, he’d also said that Antonio and Gilbert had no need to fight, and had looked really scary when he’d found out that Antonio and Gil had borrowed some of his antique broadswords to use for their match, but he’d liked the poetry. Being called an apple-love strudel was romantic. Wasn’t it? Suddenly, Antonio needed to check. “But don’t you think it was romantic? When Carlos called Luise his apple-love strudel?” Gilbert had been really impressed by that line at the time, even if it had been directed at his little brother.
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“Yes.”
Dear God, Lovino hoped the man was joking. Maybe it was a sick form of flirting: ‘pretend to like the things the object of your affection hates with the deepest fiber of his being.’ …with a face like that, Lovino would play along. “So I bet you liked when the cowboy in that one,” Lovino pointed at the book he’d thrown, “made sweet passionate love to the Spanish princess, on a horse, in the middle of a field of flowers?”
The potential (not if he didn’t fucking buy anything in the next five minutes) customer scratched the back of his head. “That’s actually really hard to do, did you know?”
Lovino didn’t. And he didn’t want to. “Look, it’s a quarter past six already. If you’re going to buy something then buy something. Otherwise,” 'I’m going to have to ask you and your perfect smile to come upstairs and fuck me against my personal collection' no he couldn’t say that, fuck what was he thinking, this guy liked the Fernandez stuff. And Lovino had standards. “Otherwise I’m going to have to ask you to come back tomorrow. I open at nine.”
He’d meant to say ‘we open at nine.’ Maybe.
“You?”
If Lovino’s chest puffed up a little at his answer, then it deserved to. He was proud of his store, even if he hadn’t started it, despite all the little touches that made it look as though Feli ran the place. “I own this place with my brother. But he only takes care of the café side.”
Antonio couldn’t believe it. “You do?” But if that was true, then Lovino was more than just a cranky bookselling cashier: he was a cranky bookselling bookstore owner, and Antonio was swiftly coming to the conclusion that Lovino might not even believe in the power of love. And Antonio couldn’t let that happen. Even if Lovino was grumpy, and even if he frowned too much, he was kind of cute in his own way. Antonio would do him a favor, from one book person to another: he would write Lovino the best romance that had yet to ever happen to him. And he would make it last. “What I meant was, I think I’ll come back tomorrow. Will you be here?”
Lovino fidgeted. This guy didn’t know how to ask somebody out properly; first he was roundabout and then he was forward? But Lovino found himself blushing anyway. He felt like one of the girls in a Fernandez book. It made him uncomfortable. “It’s not like there’s anybody else…”
“I’ll come back tomorrow then!” Antonio carefully set the copy of Sunset on the Rhein back onto Lovino’s desk and prepared to leave. He wasn’t looking forward to riding home in the rain, but hopefully the start of a new story would warm him as he went. He wondered where he would find the right person for Lovino. Maybe Lovino already had another customer who came by often, too shy to speak up? And they always looked at each other but never spoke? Maybe this time, with Antonio there to lend his expertise, they would connect; there was already a café right next door where the mystery woman could spill her coffee all over Lovino’s shirt or where the mystery man could catch Lovino when he accidentally fell. It was perfect!
The customer started laughing to himself. Lovino would have been concerned if he hadn’t spent all his energy working up his courage to ask “What’s your name?”
Antonio spun around, confused. How did Lovino not know? And then it clicked: Lovino didn’t like his books. Lovino didn’t like love stories. It followed that Lovino didn’t know who Antonio was, the heavens must have ordered it, so Antonio could help Lovino find his own happy ending. Otherwise Lovino would be too busy grumpily protesting to properly fall in love! “I’m…A-ah, oh. You can,” Antonio realized it wouldn’t be very nice to the heavens to undo all of their difficult work. He couldn’t go and tell Lovino who he was. “You can call me Gilbert.”
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“Oh, and by the way, do you sell journals?”
Lovino nodded wordlessly, and pointed at a small display sitting in front of the ‘Historical Fiction’ section. Hand-bound journals of all sizes and types were fanned out in an appealing swath of color. Some looked like they were bound in leather; others in decorative paper. Each was unique. “Feli, my brother, makes them in his spare time.” Because Feli was a bastard like that, and even though he woke up at six every day to start cooking, he still managed to find the time to make journals and re-bind Grandpa’s collection of old books and paint fucking masterpieces and have a social life and fuck his wife… and still be a lazy dumbshit whenever Lovino needed him to do something important.
Antonio could barely breathe in delight. The journals fit the store like a tailor-made suit; they would be just right for Antonio’s newest novel, starring a bitter bookstore owner who didn’t believe in love. The details would come later, as long as Antonio already had the mood. “They’re beautiful… See you tomorrow Lovino!” Without waiting for a reply he ran out into the rain. He’d need a lot of sleep in order to be fresh and ready and outside the bookstore’s glass door at eight thirty the next morning.
And they meet! Lovino already thinks Antonio has a thing for him; Antonio already thinks Lovino needs a visit from the Loooooove Doctor. But what does Feliciano think of all this???
Ari = Iceland
1non: I’d buy every copy if he’d hand-deliver them. You do have a point, people and characters are shaped by their experiences and in an AU those experiences are obviously different. I just want to make sure I don’t get too crazy in making him… crazy. Thank you very much! Monaco and France will return, although the focus there will be more on France.
OP: I’m really happy you liked this!!! Especially happy that you like him good and eccentric, because I think it fits him a lot. mmmmmm suits. And I’m glad you liked Monaco in there; I wasn’t sure about her at first, but in the end it was pretty fun playing her off France. In a way, they’re another version of ‘boss and his henchman.’ But France-ier. Yes. And there can never be too much BFT. Failtastic bros come best in threes. Lots and lots and zounds and a zillion pounds of love back to you OP! Thank you!
3non: ♥ ♥ ♥
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THE INCOHERENCE OF THIS COMMENT DOES NOTHING TO DEMONSTRATE MY SHEER LOVE FOR THIS HGGAGGAFDJGADFJAD;FSADADASDF
SO
MUCH
LOVE
Not OP by the way. But sooooo glad this story exists.
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...Anon will leave it as anon likes a lot about authournon's writing. (and will shut up now, anon promises. Unless authournon doesn't mind? Because-)
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And I'm another fan of Monaco and France.
Nothing too original to say, since someone already did a keysmashPTGHMJSRFPHIJSKB (anything else I have at the back of the mind can be said at a more appropriate time).
I have to admit I steer clear of most romance novels. And yet I read "romantic" fanfiction on the internet. Thank you for being anonymous, kink meme.
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