Being an editor was hard, honest work. Not too many people realised that. After all, what they got into their suede-coated hands was the finished end product, hungry eyes flashing over title and author, only rarely sparing a glance at the publishing house that had helped create this new wonder.
Arthur couldn't care less about the recognition, though. He did it for the satisfaction of yet another work finished, of knowing he had contributed to something that would be talked about for weeks, months in some occasions, a fond smile crossing his lips when he heard a certain novel was being serialised or would get its own movie. None of those books could have gotten anywhere without his help. And he was grateful.
What he was less grateful for, was some of the authors' attitudes. Part of an editor's work, after all, was having to interact with every single one of his assigned clients, having to point out where a story could be improved or which parts simply felt too rushed or unfinished. A few of the more timid authors meekly accepted his advice and worked on improving their story with the needed changes. Others...
"Mr. Kirkland? Mr. Bonnefoy is standing at the door, and he says he won't leave before you'll see to him."
Arthur looked up from the texts he had been correcting, red stripes and handwriting zigzagging all over the paper and its margins. He didn't like being disturbed in the reading process; it pulled you out of the story and made for an entirely different experience one you picked it back up again.
"Bonnefoy? Why on earth is he here? Our next appointment is Friday, not today!" Arthur objected to the notion of one of his most famous clients, if not the most famous one, being right here in his office. And there were several reasons for that.
Francis Bonnefoy was a creative genius. He hadn't started writing until becoming of certain age, but that didn't make his works any less fresh. On the contrary! With experience came wisdom, some said. Well, if all of Francis' works were based on experience, than this was one of the wisest men to have ever graced their publishing house with his books.
All of Francis' novels were dripping suspense and intrigue, filled with romance that was often tipping over into the erotic—it couldn't be called mere porn though, for his writing was far too refined. Drama, action, complex relationships, experiments with dark themes and the taboo, even the occasional psychological thriller or horror story. Francis could do it all. Still, it was the romance that sold, and the romance he had the most heart for.
His work wasn't the reason Arthur dreaded his coming here. It was the fact that, when the two of them disagreed on a certain topic, their arguments could get quite heated. And his colleagues knew. They knew exactly whom was calling him on the phone when he raised his voice, agitation audible in its biting tones. He had heard them talk behind his back, snickering as they placed bets on who would win the next discussion, who would get what they wanted. Sometimes it was stubborn Arthur, other times foolhardy Francis. Their work relationship was based on compromise.
One time, one of Arthur's colleagues had even had the audacity to come up to him and ask how his husband was doing. Husband! As if they were some old married couple! Not only was it a vile insinuation and slander on Arthur's reputation at work (his relationships with the clients were professional, and nothing more), it was an insult to his taste in men! For yes, he might be bisexual, as everyone at work had come to know over the past few years, but that didn't mean he would fall for someone like Francis Bonnefoy!
Arthur quickly took off his reading glasses when the author in question came storming into his office, Arthur's secretary quickly closing the door behind him. A nice effort, but in vain, for their voices would easily filter through the thin walls of his room.
Blue eyes were flashing electricity as Bonnefoy slammed down a hand onto Arthur's desk, paper flattened against the surface. "What is the meaning of this?" he growled in that distinctly French accent of his, something many of his female readers must have swooned over in the past.
Arthur sheepishly blinked up at him, wondering whatever the problem may be this time, what might have possibly prompted his client into running to his office to come shout in his face. He calmly looked down, reading the first lines of the paper that had been…presented to him. His expression changed to one of understanding when he read the very first lines. Ah. That page. The one crucial to Francis' latest work, where the lovers finally admitted their longing and came together in sweet kiss. It was heart-warming. It was boring.
"I think I made myself perfectly clear in my notes," Arthur began, Francis already starting to bristle. "You're letting them come together far too soon. They haven't had the time to fully develop their feelings for one another. It seems you simply forced them together to give the reader a happy ending."
"Not enough—they have had years!" Francis protested, roughly pulling back a chair so he could sit down.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Why don't you have a seat?"
Francis ignored him. "Qu'est-ce que tu dis? Do you even understand the notion of 'not enough time'? They have had the entire novel to get together!"
Arthur impatiently clacked his tongue. Usually he was quite good at dealing with fussy authors, but somehow Bonnefoy always managed to rile him up. "Yes, but for most part of the novel there hasn't been an inkling of captivation between the two characters! They have chemistry, yes, but that doesn't necessarily mean it has to be sexual or romantic!"
"No captivation—my dear editor, there is nothing but attraction between the two!" Francis countered, for some reason seeming particularly agitated over Arthur's lack of insight in the relationship between his two main characters. "You simple need to learn to read in between lines!"
"I do nothing but that, it's my job!" Arthur fumed in turn, starting to lose his temper. A head popped up at the window above his door, their conversation already starting to leak out the door.
"Then how could you have missed it?" Francis pointed out.
"Because throughout the novel, they are friends at best! Bonnefoy—Francis. You are simply seeing things, pushing these two characters into a relationship they do not want."
Francis growled, pulling out the other papers of his novel. How convenient and thoughtful of him to bring them with.
"Then point it out for me. Tell me exactly where they are friends at best. Because all I can see are two persons who feel attraction towards one another right from the start, but who refuse to give in until the very last scene of the novel."
Arthur scowled at him, feeling a slight headache coming up. "Now you are making things up—"
"I am the author!" Francis shouted at him, planting a fist over his chest. "I know my characters best! And now you are telling me that I am simply reading too deeply into it?!" The way he stressed his words seemed to be referring to something else as well, something existing outside the boundaries of his fiction. What that something was supposed to be, however, Arthur could only guess at.
"You are delusional," Arthur sighed in exasperation, pulling the papers towards him in order to be able to leaf through them. "Look here—when they first meet. The only thing they seem to notice about each other is flaws, things that bothers them about one another."
Francis walked around the desk so he could lean over Arthur, reading along. Arthur couldn't tell why, but he suddenly felt a little fidgety, Hadn't Francis ever heard of personal space?
"They are simply in denial, covering up their attraction with excuses."
Arthur frowned, turned to another page. He already had the events memorized per chapter, naturally. Another face appeared at the window, employees getting excited at the prospect of seeing a stand-off between their chief editor and most famed author.
"What about here then? Character A starts dating—" Francis only chose to name his characters after the story was done and their personalities had been completely formed. "—and B doesn't show an ounce of jealousy!" Ah, dating. To be at the mercy of youth again. Arthur still remembered his own last date, already quite some months ago. It hadn't lasted long, but Francis had met her once when she came over to bring him lunch. Now he wondered if their relationship had ever been the source of inspiration for one of Francis' stories? Probably not. Arthur wasn't interesting enough in regards of romance.
"If B is not jealous, then why do you think he is in such a foul mood that same evening?" Francis pointed out, flipping to the page of the discussed events.
Arthur's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "He had just been through some very troubling events, what with the burglary and—"
"He is heartbroken!" Francis interrupted him, looking as if he was personally offended by Arthur's lack of understanding. Understandable, seeing as a writer's work contained their very own heart and soul.
"There are so many indicators to point at B being in love with A—look!" He began showing even more "evidence", Arthur leaning as far back as Francis would allow him, something slowly starting to dawn upon him.
"Here, B is only describing A's appearance. This page—A has clearly been caught staring, and isn't even aware of it! Then this page, where their chemistry is visible even to all of A's colleagues! And then—"
"You based the story on me!" Arthur suddenly barked, only now seeing the story as one whole. "Character A works in the literary sector—true, they are a librarian and not an editor, but the resemblance is still there! They have green eyes, a large family, from English descendance—how do you know about my lilies?"
"I went towards the back of your garden when you went away to visit the bathroom, last time we had a meeting at your house," Francis said thinly, not even trying to make an effort at denying the accusations. He was still leaning over Arthur's slighter figure, now pressing more tightly against his back.
Arthur paused. He had been so elated (and highly surprised) at finally recognizing himself and putting all the pieces of the puzzle together, that he had failed to see the bigger, more important implications that came along. If character A was indeed built after his own persona—and he still had no idea why anyone would even think about writing a story about their editor—but if it was…
Then what about character B?
Warmth began to blossom in Arthur's cheeks as he sat there, staring blankly at the papers, stiff and rigid as he only now fully felt the weight against him, over him, suddenly far too intimate. He swallowed, throat feeling dry and sandy. Did he finally understand the reason for Francis' fierce defending of the choices he had made in this particular novel? The reason why he had come straight to Arthur's office when he had read the latest notes, red on white, telling him that A and B simply didn't belong together? Had he failed to notice what wasn't merely a story of fiction, but a love letter?
Almost everyone in the office had gone dead silent, trying to listen in on their conversations. Whispered bets were being made.
"So…" he began, feeling far less confident than he ought to. Where was his usual calm, his ability to deal with any situation that dared challenged his wit?
"Do you finally understand?" Francis asked softly, all the anger having dissipated from his usually charming voice. He seemed to be waiting for something, and Arthur shivered when he could feel a rapidly beating heart pressing against him through the fabric of their shirts. Perhaps he shouldn't have taken off his jacket earlier, when he sat down with a nice cuppa and his work of that afternoon. How could he have woken up this morning, had he known which trials would present themselves?
Arthur let out a wry little laugh, more self-deprecating than geared at his companion. He leant even deeper over his desk, Francis simply following suit, leaving him barely enough room to breathe, let alone plan his escape. Arthur laughed again, letting a hand slide over his face and into his messy bangs, not entirely believing this was happening. Perhaps he hadn't woken up at all, perhaps he was still lying in bed, and this was just some strange and silly dream.
"At least now I understand why everybody keeps calling us an old married couple," he mumbled dryly, thoughts racing and heart doing a little tango with his stomach. Everyone had probably already seen through Francis' facade. Everyone but Arthur.
Why did he feel this nervous? Was it really that unthinkable that Francis could have fallen for him? Why he had fallen may be a mystery, but this wasn't the first time he had been confessed to! He was already in his forties, had had a long and fulfilling life of dates and stolen kisses, even been married once, had had children and a divorce and even more dates after that. This wasn't his first rodeo. He simply had to tell Francis that, tell him…tell him what, exactly?
"Do they now?" Francis whispered hotly into his ear, sending tingling shivers down Arthur's spine. Francis' hand crept forward, over the arm not occupying Arthur's hair, and came to rest on top of his free hand. Arthur felt his heart skip a single beat, nervous sweat breaking out. "And that wasn't any sort of clue to you?"
"I-I guess not," Arthur laughed, hackling when the other gently laced their fingers together, even more startled when he found himself reacting, gingerly gripping those long fingers until they were trapped between his own, almost certain he could feel them twitching from all those long nights of writing, sipping from a high glass of red wine, clawing when they had to delete entire parts and start over, spidering along the keyboard, almost dancing when their master was struck by sudden and ingenious inspiration.
"You haven't given me an answer yet," Francis muttered, hair tickling at Arthur's cheek. He quickly closed his eyes, not feeling ready to look into those pools of blue, but then opened them again, not wanting to act so much like a lovestruck teenager. Where had his bravado gone?
"Well," he said after swallowing, wondering how a simple work meeting had turned into him being pinned to his desk, actually liking the warmth of another body following his spine from tip to tail bone. "Perhaps you should learn to read between the lines," he finally mumbled back, instantly blushing in embarrassment at how incredibly cheesy that sounded. He was an adult man, in his forties, had been married and divorced and gotten children and been given the gift of experience in life, and he did not need to—
And then suddenly his head was tilted to the side, his lips captured by a hungry mouth. He jolted at first, completely taken by surprise despite the now quite obvious build-up, then simply melted.
It had been months since he'd last kissed someone, even longer since he had enjoyed a kiss this much. He felt like his younger self, all nervous excitement about asking his wife to marry him, jittery and giggly on the inside when she finally said yes, stoic on the outside. There wasn't an inch of stoicism now, as he felt his lips being massaged with care, a hint of rosy perfume, cigarettes and cherries on the tip of his tongue. It was divine, and he hadn't realised how much he had yearned for this. It could last forever for all he cared.
Then he became aware of people applauding and cheering them on, and he immediately broke away to stare wide-eyed at the window above his door. Groaning, he lay his head down onto the desk, feeling the shame burn his skin. The presence behind him disappeared, footsteps echoed away, then the whizzing sound of his shutters being pulled down.
Arthur peered over the arm protecting his face, seeing Francis' sultry smile and shimmering eyes, the man looking happier than he'd seen him in a long time. His cheeks were flushed as well.
They won't bother us now," Francis promised, ignoring the noises of disappointment outside.
As the author walked back over to his favourite editor, Arthur found himself sitting up straight, this time very much anticipating what was to come.
"Well then," Francis purred, eyes hooded as he leant back down. He placed a hand to Arthur's neck, thumb caressing along his jawline, drinking in the small trembles of excitement he felt under his fingertips.
"Where were we?"