You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

– "A Dream Within a Dream," Edgar Allan Poe

chapter i - square one

His nose was freezing. Covering it didn't help, since his gloved fingers were also freezing. And the coffee, he noted, had begun to follow suit, slowly but surely. Drinking it was now out of the question – he should have done that before leaving his flat, but it was already too late.

Antonio re-capped his thermos and set it aside, a safe distance from his laptop case. The window to his right had crusted over with a thin layer of ice. He rubbed at it and glanced out – but nothing met his eyes, only the dank grey walls of the tunnel they were passing through. After a brief and fruitless search for patterns in the stone, he gave up and turned away, not noticing how the ice regrew in the absence of his warmth.

He'd been lucky to get an actual seat today. The other ninety-nine percent of train passengers had squashed together in the center, an unpleasant medley of young and old, every face sporting some degree of fatigue and irritation.

Antonio knew he looked no different.

Ten minutes, and already he missed Francis and Gilbert. He knew he hadn't much right to complain; at any given time one of them was always running off on some assignment or other. But it was one thing to be tired and with company, another to be tired and alone in a car full of strangers he had no will to talk to. Surely Gilbert would've found something amusing in that pudgy scarf-wrapped man's death stare. And Francis – well, Francis would most certainly have suggested makeup to brighten everyone's faces.

Not that he'd actually do it, of course. Most of the time he was simply a man of words. They all were. It was what they did for a living.

Antonio fought down a yawn and opened his laptop, eyes smarting at the flash of the screen. No new assignments in his inbox – for now; it meant he'd have to conjure up story ideas later in the day. Mathias Kohler, editor-in-chief, could be kind on occasion when they weren't busy. But not busy had gone from Antonio's vocabulary five years ago, when he'd first thrown himself headlong into journalism.

Aimlessly he scrolled through his messages, thinking how sad it was that this mailbox could almost be a metaphor for his life – cluttered, overwhelmed, sometimes littered with meaningful junk. Here was a link from Francis, dated four months ago, to some strange video he hadn't watched, taking Gilbert's advice to protect his mind. There were Gilbert's pictures with a fat little poodle he'd met while traveling in the south (it had wanted to pose with him, obviously). Then invitations from a rival newspaper Antonio had turned down. Old assignments he'd traded with Gilbert and Francis. Even mail from his cousin-more-like-brother João, years ago, asking him if he wanted to meet up and talk about that –

Antonio stopped, finger stamping down hard on the mouse, but it was already too late.

Disappointment. Resentment. Frustration.

The same three emotions, every time he came upon those thirty messages, every time he was reminded in the slightest. Twenty hadn't been enough to bring him down; hadn't so many other authors been rejected too?

But ten more, and he'd sunk like a raft in a hurricane. HarperCollins, Macmillan, Simon and Schuster, all the names he knew by heart. All refusal, flat-out refusal. Even the smaller ones had said the same things. So many times. Too many times.

The words were already ingrained in his memory.

We're sorry, but we're currently busy and won't be able to represent your novel.

I wish you better success with another publisher.

Thank you for your patience, but your project does not fit our list at this time.

And the most blatantly crushing one, the most mind-numbing, something he should've known all along.

Sorry, not for us.

Antonio had never liked failure. He despised it. But he'd never expected himself to fail, flagrantly, over and over and over again. He'd kept those messages for a reason – to remind himself, every now and then, just how fleeting success could be.

But seeing them now still brought a bitter taste to his mouth.

He shut his computer with a bang, shoved it away, and leaned against the cold shell of the train. If there was nothing productive he could do here, at least he could grab a few winks' worth of rest from the world.

It took almost as long to shake the snow off his coat as it did to climb the stairs.

When Antonio finally pushed open the door to the newsroom, he was greeted by the sounds of rapid typing, hurried phone calls and furious paper-ruffling. A newbie called Toris had overturned a stack, again. Copies of the Monday edition littered the floor, all covered with pictures Antonio recognized: Bella Peeters, the blushing young blonde who had starred in the latest horror movie, strolling casually down the street from her house; and actor Lovino Vargas, all dark hair and dark sunglasses, smile nonexistent, walking in the opposite direction with hands in the pockets of his designer jeans. VARGAS BREAKS UP WITH PEETERS A FOURTH TIME, the headline read.

Across the room, Arthur Kirkland, managing editor of the Times, could be seen storming through his office doorway, humongous eyebrows haphazardly arranged. Antonio decided he had to move fast.

"Here, let me help," he whispered to Toris, and in one motion swept up a large portion of the scattered papers. Toris mouthed a fervent 'Thank you,' and by the time Arthur arrived both of them were safely installed in their respective chairs, typing away.

"Was that you I saw dropping things, Toris?" the editor barked, marching to the unfortunate man's desk and picking up a paper. Immediately he dropped it like he'd been burned. "What the hell is this?" he shouted, pointing at the cover indignantly. "You were supposed to print the Vargas article in the Entertainment section, not the front page! That was all I asked!"

"I'm sorry," whispered Toris, blowing his nose and standing. "I'll go reprint them right away."

Arthur snatched up the faulty newspapers with a sniff, then leveled a glare at Antonio. "And as for you – "

"Ah, bonjour, mon cher Arthur!" interrupted a honey-sweet voice, property of Francis Bonnefoy, only just returning to his desk with two steaming Styrofoam cups. "How are you today? I see the weather's dampened your spirits a bit... Here, allow me to treat you to a friendly cup of coffee, poured with love – "

"Excuse me!?" It seemed even Arthur wasn't immune to Francis' overwhelming French charm; he had promptly turned a precise shade of beet red. "No, I have plenty of tea with me, thank you very much, Francis! Now if you'll kindly get back to work before we break all the deadlines..."

Francis arrived beside Antonio, and watched with a smirk as the managing editor retired, flustered, to his office. "That man has the strangest mood swings, mon Dieu." He set down a cup in front of Antonio. "Still, it's cute, no?"

Antonio halfheartedly suppressed a snort and took a sip of coffee. "I don't think flirting with superiors is the best idea. But hey, thanks for saving me."

"Oh, it's nothing. You'd do the same for me anytime. And you may actually be right about that..." Francis had quieted and resumed his seat. Now they were two in a circle of desks all strewn with notes and folders and computer keyboards and telephones, though of course Francis' was the neatest, which was saying a lot. The Frenchman peered closely at him over his coffee cup. "You're really quiet today, Toni. What's up?"

"Nothing. Where's Gil?"

"Dashing through the snow, on a one-horse open sleigh, o'er to Vash's place, laughing all the way!" Francis chortled. "His exact words. A bit late for the holidays though. No, but really" – and here he leaned forward conspiratorially, voice lowering – "that man has some pretty strong views against gun control. Gil's going to have fun with this article, for sure."

A slight grin was all he received from Antonio, who had been drinking his coffee and warming his fingers simultaneously. "I would've liked that one too. Haven't visited Vash in ages." He gestured to the threatening-looking pile of manila folders by Francis' elbow. "Need any help with that?"

"Non, it's fine. It's just all the info the company gave me – got a lucky break. But look at yours!"

Following his gaze, Antonio sighed inwardly. The first of the stack before him was a list of topics they'd covered in the past three weeks.

He scanned the narrow column of text. Last week Gilbert had followed the White House's New Year's celebration, Yao Wang a suspension at a local high school. And Elizabeta Hedervary had tracked down an elusive new author, who had published under a pseudonym two bestsellers –

That was where Antonio stopped reading.

"Whoever decided to make New York this cold must've been a sadist."

"You think so?" Antonio replied absently, shuffling through the snow. A great deal of it had enveloped the ground during the afternoon, a massive comforter draped over houses and shops and streets. Francis had stopped briefly to empty some snow from his shoe, and Antonio gave him a sidelong look. He seemed so at ease, so much in his element here, like the cold was simply another stranger that could never be part of him. Antonio almost envied him for it; for his part he felt stifled, the blood in him yearning for something warmer, warm and alive like home, like Spain...

"You're so out of it today, Antonio. What's going on?"

Antonio watched his breath puff out into the air, like smoke from a dying fire.

"Just tired."

It was true – he'd spent the entire day at the office, doing the same monotonous things he always did on his off days.

Brainstorming. Phone calls. Updating the news website. Making copies. His limbs ached from the cold and long hours of sitting. His head still hurt from the computer screen's glare. His fingers felt like deadweights – if only he had a pencil, and a notebook that wasn't full of notes tailored to Arthur's and Mathias' tastes, and a time and place to sit down and write, write without stopping, scream out his thoughts through words –

"Earth to Antonio?" Francis was waving at him, brows furrowed in concern. "All right, no more of these long silences. Tell me what it is."

Antonio stopped. "I just... need a break. I need a break," he repeated, tonelessly. Francis scrutinized him for a long moment, and then he sighed.

"Well, if that's what it is..." He grabbed Antonio's arm, pulling him forward. "We are going back home right now, I'm going to make amazing chicken cordon bleu for you, you'll go to sleep early tonight and wake up tomorrow all refreshed and ready for work. Okay?"

The words stuck in Antonio's throat and he could only nod, feeling suddenly, unbearably grateful. Together they trudged through the snow to the subway – one tall dark world-weary man and a somewhat shorter blond, making no sound in the muffled icy air.

"Sit," commanded Francis as soon as they returned, pushing Antonio to the couch near the heating vent. "And sleep a little if you need it. Dinner will be ready in half an hour."

"Wait – " Antonio tried to stand. "I forgot – today's my turn!"

Francis forced him to sit back down. "There will be no taking turns when you look like this, mon ami. Just rest."

Antonio relented and watched him enter the kitchen – the walled-off corner that served as a kitchen, anyway. The rest of their flat wasn't much – faded blue wallpaper, living room consisting of two battered couches around a squat wooden table. To the right was a partition, shielding their folding beds and desks from view; remnants of tinsel and colored lights still hung here and there, Francis' attempt to spruce things up for the holidays. They'd been talking of finding a new place since Christmas, as they had the money for that now, but so far their efforts had been unsuccessful.

The doorbell buzzed. Automatically Antonio rose as he heard the jingle of keys dropping, and a muttered curse; it was Gilbert who burst in, slamming the door behind him to keep out the draft.

"Holy hell, is it c-cold outside." At top speed he picked up his keys and jettisoned his snow-covered coat and bags, before collapsing, shivering, in Antonio's seat beside the heater. "Almost froze to death out there!"

"What happened to your scarf?" asked Antonio, hanging up the fallen coat and pulling a blanket off Gilbert's bed to cover him with. "I thought you were wearing it earlier."

"Gave it away." Gilbert grinned shakily, accepting a mug of hot cocoa from a reproachful Francis and warming his fingers around it. "Lil' tyke didn't have one. He needed it more than me."

Francis sighed and shook his head. "At least you didn't give away your coat, too."

"Aww, don't worry. Beilschmidts were made to be strong." Already Gilbert was reviving, his face having taken on a warmer glow. "Besides, I wouldn't miss that interview with Vargas for a million dollars."

"Vargas?" Antonio asked languidly from beside him, listening to the sound of Francis cooking. "He was in the papers today."

"Of course – he's gonna make headlines later this week, too. Did you know he and Bella Peeters are the lead roles in that movie coming out soon?"

"No way. They just broke up yesterday!"

"That's where the irony comes in. Their characters are supposed to fall in love! Can't wait to hear what Vargas has to say about that."

"Sounds like fun," murmured Antonio, slowly dozing off against Gilbert's shoulder. "Tell me about it when you get back. When is it?"

"The day after tomorrow. Wednesday."

"Great."

And Antonio fell asleep.

"Oh, shit."

"Gil?" Antonio rolled over and squinted at his friend's silhouette in the bed to his right. "What's – mierda, you look terrible!"

"I know," rasped Gilbert. "Something's wrong with my throat. Hurts to talk."

Antonio rushed over to feel his friend's forehead. "Dios mio, you're burning! Francis, can you get up for a minute? Where'd you put the meds?"

The Frenchman shot up and shoved off his blankets. "Quoi? Oui, attend – I mean, yeah! Wait up – " He ran to the kitchen, returning moments later with a small plastic bottle, and stopped to stare at Gilbert. "Putain, t'es vraiment malade..."

Gilbert covered his eyes and groaned. "How'm I going to work tomorrow – " He broke off with a cough. Antonio and Francis exchanged heavy glances.

"You can't go anywhere like this, Gil," said Antonio finally. "You need to rest. Francis and I could call Mathias for you."

"...Fine." Gilbert tossed over his phone, downed some Tylenol, and lay back down. "Tell him my other shit's on its way."

"Of course."

"I doubt he'll be up at this hour. Ah well, but it's urgent anyway," muttered Francis, already dialing the Editor-in-Chief's number. "Hello? Oh, hey – Mathias, you are awake! Sorry for the late call, but..." He glanced at their resting friend. "Gilbert's sick, caught cold yesterday when he was going to Vash's. He might not be able to make it to the Vargas interview..."

"Let me talk," Gilbert rasped again, taking the phone. "Mathias?" He winced. "I'm really sorry about that. I've done everything else... Thanks so much. I'll be back as soon as I can." He paused to listen. "... Yeah. Yeah, I'll tell him. Thanks again – bye."

Francis and Antonio watched expectantly as he hung up. Gilbert leaned back and gave them a tired grin.

"Well, I'm off the hook now. Antonio, you're on."

Away from the noisy newsroom, away from the tiny flat he shared with his friends, away from New York City itself where he felt so small and unnoticed, Antonio supposed he should feel free. After all, here he was on an airplane, high as could be, so far removed from the busy meaninglessness of his daily life.

But it didn't feel like escape; it was just another duty.

He stared out the window, a habit of commuting that he still couldn't shake. Outside all was grey, grey and impenetrable. A wall of clouds, still just as stifling as the subway tunnels. He closed his eyes and willed himself to stop thinking. It would do no good to show up at the interview looking like a trapped animal – that never made a good impression.

At length he turned to his laptop for a distraction. He'd made sure to look up the actor in the few hours before his flight, and Google, it seemed, was particularly friendly to the name.

Lovino Vargas, from what he could see, was the don't give a damn kind of celebrity. Twenty-eight, son of Italian immigrants, eight-figure salary and worldwide fame for his roles in a dozen big movies. Apparently he had the outspokenness to go with it, too, not to mention his strange fancy for fleeting relationships with other actors and actresses. Bella Peeters had broken records for having spent the most time with him – but they had parted for the fourth time in a year after Vargas learned she'd kept a ring from an old flame, a Belgian singer.

"It was just a disappointment to me," was all Vargas had said on the matter, according to a rival newspaper's article. There was even a picture of him: windblown brown hair, disdainful dark eyes, elegantly carved mouth turned down at the corners. All radiating the utmost boredom.

And somehow they'd still be starring together in Before Sunrise. The reason why Antonio was flying over this very minute.

It took him a long moment to realize he didn't really care.

He did love Beverly Hills, though. Sprawling mansions and perfect lawns and streets so neatly paved they must've come straight out of a picture book – even the skies were a blue rarely seen in New York. And how could it possibly be this warm in the middle of winter? But the air wasn't thick, wasn't oppressively hot; the wind was gentle on Antonio's skin, with a subtle flowery scent, making him want to sit down with a notebook and immortalize it all.

It felt just as unreal walking up to the Vargas residence. He had to make sure every step landed squarely on the narrow stone path, far enough away from the grass, every blade identical in height and color. Before him loomed the grand house he didn't dare stare at for too long, with high doors of shining wood and pristine white paint and elegant balconies and window-panes golden in the afternoon sun.

According to Mathias, the only reason Vargas had agreed to receive him here was that he didn't want anyone spying on him. Antonio thought he could guess who that might be.

Reaching the polished front door, he rang the doorbell and waited, holding his breath. No answer. He rang again, adjusting the collar of his jacket, which had grown a little warm, and made sure his journalist's implements were still safe in his pockets – one for the notepad, a second for the pens, a third for his phone. His press card hung heavily around his neck.

Suddenly two voices started up, some distance behind the door.

"Mr. Vargas! Mr. Vargas!" Echoing, hurried footsteps. "You don't need to answer – it might be – "

"No, no, it's fine! I want to see for myself."

And the door swung open.

High, bright, energetic – that had been his voice. And here, undoubtedly, was Vargas himself, all smiles and sunshine, from his welcoming air to his upturned mouth. Behind him, off to the side, was an older uniformed man – a butler.

"Oh, you must be the journalist!" The actor stuck out his hand in a surprisingly friendly manner. "Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, correct?"

"Yes." Antonio recovered just in time to paste on a smile and shake Vargas' hand. It was soft like a child's, but his grip was firm. No ornaments on his fingers, no rings. Antonio made sure not to hold on too long. "It's a real pleasure to meet you!"

Vargas flashed another improbably dazzling smile. "No, no, the pleasure's all mine! Come in, come in. You must've had a hard time getting here from New York!"

"Not at all." Secretly Antonio was marveling at the man's cheerfulness – he certainly hadn't looked this happy in any of the pictures Antonio had seen. But maybe that was just his way in public.

Antonio's thoughts took a new turn as he followed Vargas into the living room.

This one room itself had to be bigger than his entire flat. Off-white walls, adorned everywhere with framed paintings and photographs. A jeweled chandelier hung from the ceiling, shimmering in the light from the spacious windows. Directly below it, with a vase of roses at the center, stood a glass table bordered by two large leather couches. This was where Vargas led him. Antonio obeyed when he was offered a seat, mind whirling.

"So what is it that you'd like to know about?" The actor opposite him appeared perfectly at ease, interested even, eyes so open and guileless Antonio had trouble believing it was really him. "Ask away, I'll answer!"

"Well," Antonio began, "everyone's been so excited to hear you'll be starring in Before Sunrise. Including me," he added, and Vargas laughed. A strange, carefree, lighthearted sound, no sign of condescension whatsoever. "But as for Bella Peeters being the female lead... What are your thoughts on that?"

He waited for a negative reaction from Vargas, a frown maybe, or hardened eyes. But – nothing. The man before him still smiled. He sure was good at this.

"Oh, I don't have much to say on that, really. She's a great person! Great at everything she does, too. I'm happy to be working with her..."

"So, how did it go, Antonio? ... Antonio?"

Antonio cracked open one eye, then the other. Both Francis and Gilbert were hovering eagerly over him, Francis with spatula in hand, Gilbert looking much better now, wearing thick pajamas and a heavy scarf.

"What d'you guys want?" mumbled Antonio, shutting his eyes once more.

"Aw, come on, Toni. Don't play." Gilbert was grinning. "This is serious."

"I just survived an interview with the most famous actor in the world. Can't I have a minute of peace – hey! Francis!"

The Frenchman flipped open Antonio's notepad, devouring the words on the page, and his mouth opened in a large O.

"Whoa there, Francis, what's – wow." Gilbert stopped to read. "He really said all that?"

"Yeah... I wasn't expecting it at all."

Gilbert squinted suspiciously at him. "Are you sure that was Vargas?"

"I saw him with my own eyes!" protested Antonio. "But he did look happier than usual."

"Did you see him smile?" inquired Francis with great interest.

"... Yes?"

"No way," breathed Francis. "Antonio, mon ami. You have to be the luckiest man alive! The guy never smiles in his pictures!"

"Did you ask him for an autograph?" Gilbert interrupted.

"No. Should I have?"

"Zut. Of course – why didn't you? Well, what was his place like? Gold-paved roads? Marble walls? Diamond windows?"

Antonio couldn't stop smiling.

"You two..."

It was going to be a long day. But not in a bad sense – no, not at all.

Pride welled up in his chest when he saw his article heading Thursday's Entertainment section. VARGAS COMMENTS ON FUTURE MOVIE ROLE WITH PEETERS. And under the title, Antonio Fernandez Carriedo.

The views to their webpage had gone up several thousand in the last few hours for Antonio's article alone. They'd sold the most copies they had all week.

"Nice job with that one," said Arthur, passing Antonio's desk without so much as a smile.

"Thanks, Arthur."

Antonio felt lighter than he had in a long while.

Over by the doorway, Toris met his eyes and gave him a shy thumbs up. And Francis thumped him on the back while making googly eyes at the editor's retreating form. Antonio, silently elated by all the attention, was in the middle of a new article when he heard the phone ring, loud and demanding, and glanced up to see Mathias in his office answering.

"Good morning, this is the office of – " He stopped abruptly, eyes widening. "You are... Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Vargas. Is there something you – "

Vargas.

Antonio jolted in his seat, barely noticing how the entire room had gone still upon hearing the name. All eyes were fixed on Mathias as he spoke, a frown beginning on his face.

"... You don't believe the article accurately reflects your views? All right... If you'd like to have it taken down, we'll do it immediately. Yes." He paused, and everyone else seemed to pause with him, holding their breaths. "We're very sorry for any problems this has caused you, Mr. Vargas... My deepest apologies."

He hung up and came out of his office, into the newsroom proper. A deadly silence. Antonio's blood had turned to ice.

"Antonio," said the Editor-in-Chief tiredly. "Can I talk to you for a minute, please?"

The door didn't just swing open; it slammed, and right away he knew it was Gilbert. Stalwart as a soldier, he'd gone marching out the second his sore throat and fever had passed, ready for another day of picking up news around the city. No one could say he wasn't devoted to his work.

"I'm home!" he sang, dropping everything to the floor with a thump. "Why's it so damn dark? Oh, Antonio, you're back early! How was your day today – Antonio?"

"... Yeah?"

"What happened to you?" Gilbert crossed over to him. "You're a mess!"

"Nothing happened." Antonio turned over on his side to better see the small TV on the coffee table, the only source of light in the flat. "Just watching the news."

He could almost feel Gilbert frowning beside him. The couch creaked as his friend sat down, close to where Antonio had curled up. Gilbert's hand came to rest on his shoulder. "Antonio, you don't ever have to watch the news, you make it yourself." Antonio said nothing. "Did something go wrong at the office?"

Antonio pulled a threadbare couch cushion over his eyes. "Vargas called."

A short silence. "What'd he say?"

"That I misrepresented his views. That my article had to be taken down. That I'm a horrid reporter, basically."

"What. Are you kidding me?" Gilbert's voice rose. "Are you fucking kidding me? You wrote down exactly what he said! Right from your notes – " He jumped up, snatching Antonio's notepad off his desk to reread it. "See – it's the same thing! He said good shit about her! That was all – I saw your article myself, it's the same thing!"

"Mathias and Arthur spoke with me," Antonio said listlessly. "I'm just sitting tight and awaiting further instructions."

Gilbert shook his head slowly. "No fucking way. They can't fucking fire you like that – it's unfair." He grabbed his coat and started putting it back on. "I'm going back to talk to them, Vargas be damned."

"Don't bother. Francis was there – he argued with them when he heard. Now he might be in trouble too."

"Where'd he go?"

"Just to the market, to get food. He'll be back."

Gilbert sat down again and pulled Antonio to him, fingers brushing through the Spaniard's hair and untangling the knots. "Goddamnit, Antonio." His voice was a whisper. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Antonio only closed his eyes. He had nothing to say.

At least they still have work, he thought to himself the next morning, lying in bed and watching his friends walk out the door.

His chest felt hollow. So unbearably hollow.

He went out to Times Square that evening and sat alone for an hour under the snow.

Five years of hard work and credibility, gone down the drain for no reason at all. Like those other five years he'd spent so long ago.

"Antonio," said Francis, shaking him. "Antonio, you have to at least eat."

Antonio rolled over on his bed, facing the ceiling. "'M not hungry."

"I don't care if you're not hungry." But Francis' voice quickly lost its sharpness. "Come on, Toni. You need to keep your strength up. And how will you get work if you're just lying around?"

It was Gilbert's turn to make dinner. Francis, leading Antonio to the table, couldn't help a snicker at the wurst.

"Hey!" shouted Gilbert from his chair, mouth already full. "The hell you laughin' at?"

"I could've cooked that so much better."

"No way," Gilbert declared. "You gotta have some German in you for that."

"Are you implying something here – "

Antonio sat down and automatically put a spoonful into his mouth. At once he was ravenous. Gilbert and Francis watched in awe as he began shoveling down food like he'd been through a week-long famine.

"What did I tell you about my cooking?" Gilbert said with pride.

The third day, everyone's day off, Antonio read the newspapers. Francis noticed this, and also that the paper was their own Times.

"Toni," he said cautiously. "You're – "

"Looking for a job," finished Antonio. "There has to be someone hiring around here."

But that day there was nothing.

He threw the paper into the fireplace.

"I'm going to the coffee shop," announced Antonio on the morning of the fourth day, pushing aside his chair and going to the coat rack. His two friends exchanged glances; this was why he'd bothered to actually dress properly.

"Are you asking about job openings?"

"Yeah." Antonio slipped on his coat and scarf. "I remember seeing a sign on their door last week."

"In that case..." Francis also rose. "Bonne chance!"

"Good luck!" echoed Gilbert.

Antonio mustered a grateful smile. "Thanks, guys – you're the best."

He was just pulling on his boots when his phone rang – the first time in four days. His heart stopped at the tinny sound, then leapt suddenly. Surely it had to be...

But the phone screen displayed no number; the person calling must have had it hidden. Antonio answered anyway, aware of Gilbert's and Francis' stares.

"Hello?"

"Is this Antonio Fernandez Carriedo?" demanded a male voice he didn't recognize. Low and smooth, with a slight undertone of irritation – or anxiety, he couldn't tell. For a second Antonio hesitated.

"... Yes? Who is this?"

The man on the other end let out a long sigh. "Good. I had a hard enough time even finding you in the first place. You came to my house instead of Beilschmidt, didn't you? And your employer at the Times fired you after I made that call?"

Antonio nearly dropped the phone.

No way. There was no way –

"Are you Lovino Vargas?" he asked weakly. Two chairs overturned as Gilbert and Francis raced to his side.

"Yes," said the man. "Yes, I'm Lovino Vargas. We need to talk. It appears there's been a mistake."

So... a plot bunny hit and as you should know I am notoriously bad at fending off plot bunnies. THEY'RE DANGEROUS CREATURES OKAY. Anyway - I also realized I have precious few Spamano AUs in the present, mostly way in the past and future, so I tried this. I've always loved the idea of melancholy little writer Antonio. He makes my heart weep. And I also love putting Lovino in positions of power and making him older. There are precious few older Lovis in the fandom too, that I know of at least.

Next chapter should be Lovi's POV!

If you made it this far you are a darling and I love you dearly. Please review and tell me what you think? :'D

Translations

Putain, t'es vraiment malade - Fuck, you really are sick (T'es = tu es, only spoken French tends to shorten things.)

Bonne chance! - Good luck!

Before Sunrise is an actual movie lol you guys should watch it. I just thought Lovi fit the male role kind of...