River taps his temple. “You’re finally getting the hang of it.” He pauses, wondering for a moment if it means anything that they’re both calling out his persona. “It’s in my apartment. I wanna give it to my girlfriend—if she’ll still have me.” He shrugs. “That’s how it works, right? Expensive art as relationship repair?
"perhaps," for better or worse. "i don't know if that's truly the case. if art could repair everything, then my life would be perfect, but it's far from it." some would disagree. her cousin would proclaim her as mad. the people on the streets would only see the houses and the jewels, but not how her smiles seem forced, how she looks overwhelmed and enervated, and sometimes, if they'd squint their eyes right, they'd notice just the way her hands tremble in the news clips. mona wonders if she'll ever grow out of it; just how little girls grow out of their favourite shoes and the idea that kindness would get them far in life. she sits then, twisting to the side as if to offer an indentation beside herself for him to occupy. "what are you hoping to mend? what have you done?"
"for what it's worth, i don't think you're an asshole, though i'm certain that you'll try your best to prove me wrong," deaf to any warnings that a reasonable mind could conjure, she decides to embrace all the foolishness that he may throw at her feet just to prove a point, a silver gauntlet of defiance or a rose, bereft of petals yet with all its thorns. "but to answer your question, yes, i'm quite sure that something could be arranged. tell me, what did you do with the painting that i gave you?"
This is the part Fumiko doesn’t understand, and perhaps never will. To love someone so completely. Of course, there is no doubt in her mind that she feels a strong sense of duty toward her family, a somber sort of protectiveness, even. But to take on a lover? It all reads as white noise to her. Uncomfortable nonsense that disrupts her quiet. Her understanding of love is entirely academic—clinical theories absorbed at Kēio, where passion was reduced to textbook principles. “I don’t believe anyone should be in love, if history is any guide. Emotions tend to… destabilize things for everyone involved—by ‘everyone,’ I mean it could be two lovers or whole kingdoms.”
it's selfish perhaps, the way mona, despite being much loved, grows needy. it's stranger even to hear that coming from the mouth of one of the most beloved women in all of coronado — but love is learned by loving and being loved. the only problem is this: the people who love her don't know her, and those that she loves, do not love her in return. "it must be easier for you. to be so detached. there's nothing more that i want than to love," it's foolish to think that you could have both; both love and the world. "say what you will, but i would trade my entire kingdom for eternal devotion. these feelings, they have me by the throat. they refuse to let go."
In a way, she understands. Performance is a necessity in the life of a del Bosque and a Shibata. Two sides of the same coin, Fumiko thinks, as she sees each del Bosque brandish their masks of being the country’s beloved stewards. They have to be seen, loved, and idolized time and again. She understands that seeing a del Bosque in a successful romantic relationship makes them lovable, too. Their culture thrives on sentiment. “How noble,” Fumiko says eventually. “You could be a Shibata, with how you play your part so perfectly.” And as if there is only the character of Monarosa, not a real human being.
what is monarosa del bosque, if not a living and breathing doll? kept in perfect condition inside of her priceless house made out of plastic. molded to be looked at, like all beautiful things, impossible to part with, like all precious things. nubile and radiant, drapped in finest silk, a sickening fantasy with perfectly measured extremities. but a doll is still just a doll. tethered to her box, tied up in ribbons, well-adjusted to her confinement. so stop for a beat when you read this. see how the doll doesn't get to narrate her own story. "thank you. i shall take that as a compliment." but she doesn't. something about the way fumiko said it makes her want to sink through the floor. "what makes you think that i don't want to be in love?"
That's a strange statement. His brow furrows slightly as he looks over at her. Del Bosque – obviously. He has a brain and functioning eyeballs. "Your neck fucked up?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. The stars are free, both financially and spiritually. They bring him great comfort. He doesn't understand why someone would be unable to look to them for the same. The only viable explanation, to him, is that there was some kind of injury not made public that keeps her from tilting her chin upwards to look at the stars. "They're right there, they're not going anywhere."
"no, not quite..." looking is useless. can't you see? picturesquely misunderstood, alive but robbed of the pleasure to truly live, mona knows that it would be a waste of breath to try and explain herself. he's not here for her. he's not here to listen. yet she'll give him what she gives to everyone else— herself. a tender voice, beauteous smile, and enough space right beside her. "are you fond of roses? or are you …" she switches to another thing instead, something tangible, close to her fingertips, the one thing that stands between them. "just like me, more in favor of the dahlias?"
"Stars are looking beautiful tonight, aren't they?" He's in the gardens, a glass of some fancy who-knows-what with a name he can barely pronounce in his hand. He doesn't feel like he's meant to be here, really, but the stars here are the same as the stars over the docks, which comforts him. "Not a cloud in the sky..."
"i haven't even noticed..." neither the stars nor the prominent absence of clouds, catching instead contorted glimpses of her reflection, which seems to taunt her no matter where she looks or goes. crowds still bring about bouts of nausea, but she swallows it down with the rest of her fizzy drink, offering a tender confession, with glossy gardenians and doleful dahlias as her only witnesses. "i don't know if i actually have the strenght to look up."
“To who?” Is her response, one she delivers with a faintly bemused expression. The way she sees it, the evening itself is the good impression—though Fumiko would interpret a state gala as a reminder of the island’s order rather than a ‘corralling of the nation’s best.’ A feckless presentation of her family is the least of her worries.
"what do you mean?" there's always a warm hand that needs to be shaken, another camera to immortalize her smile, a new conversation that could get the better of her. the story unfold like this; a damaged young girl grows into a damaged young woman, and all her life she's made to perform, despite feeling inadequate before the burgeoning expectations of the world. asking her to stop now would be tantamount to death. "it's what we always do, fumiko. it's why we're here."
"i suppose that he is here tonight," the stage is set; all that they ought to do is walk hand in hand. "but love comes second. my family's at the forefront right now. i must do everything in my power to leave a good impression." which is the only reason why she exists; which she the only reason why she's here.
the unchallenged embodiment of glamor, style and poise, monarosa del bosque made her appearance on the eve of july 18th, dressed only in the finest silk. for many, the excessive amount of fabric would make it difficult to move, but the youngest del bosque walked flawlessly down the red carpet, aided only in certain moments by her bodyguards. the blue dress, as an ode to lady mona's enduring appeal, is set to be sold at an auction the following week. all procedures will be donated to monarosa's beloved charities.
"thank you for such a kind offer, but i must decline," she says, looking almost dejected. "i'm afraid my presence, as well as yours, would attract too much attention. "
Change: What was a turning point in your muse’s life?
it comes at fifteen. around the first time monarosa is thrust into the public eye without proper supervision. it isn't sudden, but it is inexplicably intense, and it sets the scene for how the rest of her life is going to unfold. she thinks that she'll manage at first, because she's used to the scrutinizing lenses by her mother's side and does her best to mimic luciana's smile, but the trajectory of her rise is brutally fast. it leaves her in a toxic symbiotic relationship with the press, for she is both the prize and the prey ( the prey is often the prize in the hunter's eyes ). a part of her grows to love it for all the wrong reasons because in the public she seeks the reassurance she can't find at home, which only further exposes her to people and leaves her at their mercy. it festers and spirals, and becomes suffocating because, to a degree, she's somehow always stalked. there are hardly any parts of her life that aren't amply photographed and sold for profit. her panache and status are equated to the stature of celebrity. she's almost bigger than the del bosque name — for she belongs to the people, unlike the rest of them.
if you could save only one sibling from falling off a cliff, who would it be?
in most cases, mona would insist on offering herself instead of her siblings, but she would most likely save the disappointment. the most neglected of the four* of them, she wants them to have a life that they've always been denied and therefore also a second chance.
everything you always wanted to know about the people's princess.
Spiders: Does your muse squish bugs or put them outside?
Snakes: Would your muse ever keep an unusual/exotic pet?
Blood: What’s the worst injury your muse has ever had?
Laugh Track: What is your muse's favorite genre for entertainment?
Mirrors: What is your muse’s least favorite thing about their appearance? Their favorite?
Tight Space: Does your muse have any phobias?
Tick-Tock: Does your muse ever feel that they’re not living up to their own potential?
Crowds: Where is your muse's home away from home?
Death: What does your muse consider the worst way to die?
Needles: Does your muse have a strong stomach?
Ghosts: Has your muse ever seen something they couldn’t explain? Do they believe in the paranormal?
Curses: Does your muse believe in good/bad luck? How about karma?
Deserted Islands: Name 3 things your muse couldn’t live without.
Unrequited: Has your muse ever had a one-sided love?
Falling: What does your muse think about falling in love or commitment?
Number 13: Does your muse believe any superstitions?
Wannabe: When your muse was a child, what did they want to be when they grew up? If they aren't, what stopped them? If they are, how do they like it now?
Change: What was a turning point in your muse’s life?
Mindfulness: How does your muse practice self care?
Lucid: Describe the last dream your muse had. What about the last nightmare?
Enrichment: Does your muse have a hobby? Do they want a new one?
Elephant Graveyard: Is there a district or a place that your muse actively avoids? If so, why?
Gears: What's something that makes your muse explosively angry?
“Freedom.”
The word drops from his mouth like a pill he’s not sure he should swallow. River stares at the unfinished painting, at the billiard player caught mid-stroke, destined to never complete the shot.
“I get to not give a shit.”
His fingers drum against his thigh, muscle memory searching for a glass, a pill bottle, something to make this moment less naked.
“You Del Bosques.” He snorts. “Everything’s a story. Every brush stroke. Every name. Even so much as a fucking doorknob in this place probably has some ancestor who bled for it.”
He steps closer to the painting, close enough that a security guard somewhere is probably having a coronary.
“You see art history. Family legacy. I see a guy who couldn’t finish what he started.” River taps his temple. “Kindred spirit.”
The lights catch the hollows under his eyes, the places where sleep should be.
“Your whole life is this… predetermined fucking orbit. Mine’s a crash landing I get to steer.” His laugh is empty, practiced. “Nobody expects River Masten to know anything except how to ruin things creatively.”
He turns to her, suddenly stripped of performance.
“It’s a void most days. But it’s my void. I chose it.”
The moment stretches uncomfortably thin between them. He can feel the sincerity like an itch under his skin.
“Or maybe,” he adds, the familiar smirk sliding back into place like a mask, “I’m just another rich asshole who thinks being broken makes him special.”
"that must be nice." her voice is not the voice of a woman who mocks; it's of a woman defeated. every line has been crossed but it's she who falls behind, having nothing to soften or cushion the pain of the sudden impact.
she wants to say something, implore him to stop and hurt her in another way, but she can't, or won't, his words sounding more like a verdict than revelation, his words like teeth at the column of her throat.
shifting her weight from one foot to another, monarosa nearly tumbles over, her heel buckling but not breaking, bending at an almost impossible angle as she pivots and straightens back to her statuesque height once more. it's going to leave an ache somewhere in her foot, between the bones and tendons and leather straps.
once is by chance. twice is a coincidence.
she refuses to acknowledge anything else.
any other version that would tell her it's a pattern instead of an accident.
"i wish you a kinder void, then." she swallows hard, her tongue nearly sticking to the roof of her mouth as she saunters closer, demanding respect. may mother forgive her for what she is about to do.
"from this moment, the painting's yours, river. it's my gift to you." her gift and her first act of free will. "you can take it off the wall right this second or we can ship it to you, but it's yours. entirely."
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