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
“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.’
Reply
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.
Reply
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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