del bosque. @unlegitimate - Tumblr Blog

ANDREA del bosque. Del Bosque. DEL BOSQUE. DEL BOSQUE.

“Right, of course, I get that,” she nods. Some people really do have strong opinions about their coffee’s sugar levels. She lets it go, but something makes her glance back—a quiet double take—before she tilts her head, studying him more carefully. “Say, you look a little familiar…” Josephine smiles to soften the observation. “The beaches, maybe? Bahía Azul?”

unlegitimate

There are little things about his life that he's had to train himself into to avoid disappointing those in his life further – things like not taking sugar in his coffee, things like drinking coffee in the first place. There's a mold he has to fit into, the perfect del Bosque son, and he was born misshapen at birth (no matter how he tries to deny it, tries to make himself fit, takes his coffee with milk every morning despite the taste of it–). He can feel her eyes on him. His posture is already straight as can be. Resisting the urge to raise an eyebrow, Andrea opts instead to meet her gaze, letting her be the first to speak. "That was me, yes," he says with a nod. "Andrea del Bosque," he introduces himself, holding a hand out for her to shake.

#with: joey iverson.

glittergab

No one wants to hear about a kid at all.

It's a passing thought. The kind of thing you say because you're used to people not listening or you think whoever is listening doesn't matter. Either way, it cuts like a grater, rubbing raw at the live wire that's been electrified in Greta tonight.

She crumples the cloth napkin in her grip, rubbing at Andrea's jacket now instead of a gentle dab.

Whatever whatever whatever.

It kind of pisses her off, the way he seems to think he's the main character in her life, rather than the set dressing. If she's so annoying, if he's so neglected, he ought to do something about it beyond complaining. But he won't. It's not in the script.

It's a good thing, taking control of your own life. Brave. Powerful. Her hand is scrubbing at the jacket. She doesn't have to do what people tell her to. She won't. She has agency. Exercising it is the right thing to do.

She did the right thing tonight.

There's a twinge in her working arm that forces her to still. She casts aside the napkin into a nearby laundry bin and look at Andrea, voice brutally bright. "Aw, you think I care about you? Like we're friends? That's really sweet."

"I do what I want," Saying it aloud grounds her, amplifies the wattage in that heady feeling of control. This isn't one of Patrice's manifestations, it's not an idle daydream, Greta took action and proved it. "You've looked miserable all night, and then that disaster with your jacket. Yikes. So embarrassing. I know you don't have the guts to let me show you a good time, but I figured you could use the break. Again, you're welcome."

unlegitimate

"If you don't care about me, I think you spend a lot of time trying to act otherwise. I never said we're friends." Her tone of voice doesn't impact him; he has two sisters who more than cover for that. Monarosa doesn't seem to realize she does that - it's like she's blocked out every bit of her mind that tells her he's not like them, or like she's purposely ignoring it, acting like they're nothing short of best friends. Elena is cruel not for cruelty's sake, but it seems cruelty comes naturally to her, the way breathing comes naturally. And then there's his mother...

He knows a woman's distaste far more than he knows their kindness.

"Congratulations," he replies, tone still flat. "Must be easy, being a du Bois." Del Bosques don't have the ability to do what they want. If Andrea could do whatever he wanted... well, he doesn't know what he'd be doing, really. Traveling, most likely. Seeing the world outside of their tiny island where everyone knows his face. Writing, a voice buried deep in the back of his mind tells him. He ignores that, the way he's ignored every ounce of his own personality for the past twenty years just for a chance to earn the praise of people who will never like him, not to mention love.

Andrea's looked miserable all night because he's the punching bag. He's sure that he'd be blamed for just about anything that went wrong at any stage of this event, so he has to bite his tongue, shut his mouth, smile for the cameras, and take every blow dealt by the tongues of his family. There's a part of him that thinks he's still being blamed for the assassination of the Premier at the last del Bosque sponsored event. As if he could've changed things, could've stopped things. It's his existence that's proof enough of his guilt.

With a sigh, he turns back to her, posture straight, arms crossed over his chest. "Right, that disaster with my jacket, I wonder how that happened." He doesn't believe the innocent excuse of someone being too drunk. The timing was too perfect for that. "Again. Your idea of a good time is not mine. You can enjoy... whatever you do with your spare time, and I'll enjoy mine, is that a problem?"

Reaching for his jacket - damp, it won't be pleasant to put back on, but he's not about to walk back into the party without the necessary layer, he understands a dress code as well as he understands any other social code - he shifts his jaw slightly. "Thank you for dabbing at my coat."

#with: greta du bois.

gigilaboss

There's a sort of buzz to the room that Giulia quiets out while listening to Andrea's summary of the presentation. He does it well, enumerates a few points patiently even though Giulia can read crystal clear in his face how done he is with this entire evening. How done he is with her, but she doesn't pay more mind to it than usual, she's had decades to get used to his beaten-dog act. Still, she swallows her surprise at how complete the presentation has been, she wasn't expecting them to start this big with the act. And she takes note of this 9am timestamp, but Giulia wants to read it all now. Tonight. She might go bother someone to get them before tomorrow. "I see Andrea, thank you. Noemi does have a thing with diapositivas, remember her Christmas special? Twelve slides per district to describe the decorations accredited to them... Do you think she makes them herself?" She asks and throws a glance to the person sitting across from them who seems to be staring a bit too much to her taste. It conveys the message desired and the person looks away instantly, focusing on their dessert. "Anyways, are you staying for the cognac?"

unlegitimate

They're still talking, are they? Quite frankly, with every second that passes, Andrea craves alone time more and more. While he's eating, he can almost - almost - tune out the party going on around him, but it'll certainly be easier to drown out the world with silence once he's alone in his apartment. He can sit in his library, open a book, read a chapter or two, and then he'll be able to go to sleep without voices ringing in his ear, saying everything short of what a disappointment he is. He knows he's a disappointment, they've made that very clear over the duration of his life... it's almost more difficult because they won't speak the truth to his face. "If she doesn't make them herself, she practices in the mirror for twenty-four hours beforehand to make sure she knows everything from scratch. I can't imagine she trusts anyone but herself to make them, though." Not that he knows Noemi personally, but he knows her sort; too type A to give up the reins to anyone else. "I'm staying as long as the family stays." What sort of question is that? He's still del Bosque, of course he's staying. There would be too much talk if he left even a moment before it was proper. Is she trying to get rid of him?

#with: giulia del bosque.

semidull

“Not a fan of the sweetness?” Josephine asks. “Some people do think raw cane sugar syrup’s a little out of their comfort zone, but it’s only because we’re all used to those artificial sweeteners that are in every other café in the city.” Her hands flutter in that universal gesture of, ‘Let's talk about something else.’ “Um, is there anything else I can get you? Some food, maybe?”

unlegitimate

That seems like more knowledge than he actually asked for, but he's not going to push away a little politeness - even if it's not authentic. "I don't enjoy my coffee tasting sweet at all, natural or artificial." He enjoys sweetness, but coffee isn't meant as a vessel for sugar of any sort. He can go to desserts for that. "I'm not starving to death," he tries to reassure her with a little smile, "I just want the coffee. Thank you, though."

#with: joey iverson.#he will not <3

glittergab

Andrea is awfully practiced at breathing exercises for someone who isn't into woo-woo bullshit.

While he's looking away, finding his inner peace (or whatever his version of that is), she smooths her hands down his jacket, quickly flipping it over to check the lining as well. There's nothing there but a loose thread in the right pocket.

She flips the jacket back over just as he turned back to her.

"I know how you want people to think that you were raised. People lie about their childhoods all their time." She dabs at a splash on the sleeve. "Who wants to hear about an unhappy kid?"

No one. It doesn't sell, unless you're five times that age and writing a retrospective memoir.

There's a tightness in the middle of her chest. She ignores it, pivoting.

"You know, I didn't tell you this when we last hung out." She dampens the napkin a second time, reapplying her efforts, buying more time. "But I think you have a problem." Greta lets that marinate for a beat, sour and abrasive.

"Your problem is you're a shitty liar. If you got into improv you could probably fix that. You're too scripted. I say 'are you having fun' and you look at your lines say 'the party is lovely', which isn't exactly an answer to the question, is it? It's spin."

unlegitimate

"No one wants to hear about a kid at all." Meant to be seen and not heard, the heirs of del Bosque, though Andrea was meant to be seen significantly less than any of his half-siblings. It's nights like tonight that lead Andrea to think that if his mother were given the opportunity to scrub him from family portraits, to erase his very existence, she wouldn't hesitate to take the first opportunity that presented itself for her to do so. "Besides, my childhood ended twenty years ago." If he's still lingering on things that happened to him two decades ago, that's his problem, not meant to be shoved upon the unwilling parties that he interacts with on a day-to-day basis.

He doesn't want to be here. The kitchen is too loud, the party too... well, too much of a del Bosque event. All he asks for is some peace, quiet, and privacy, and that's too much to ask for, apparently. He can't stand being trod on by everyone who wants to make themselves feel a little bit bigger tonight. He's forsaken by the sun, the moon, the stars, whatever controls their world. Maybe he was evil in a past life; he certainly doesn't deserve what he's been given in this one.

Of course he has a problem. He has about a million problems. He's heard enough about his problems for a lifetime tonight. Raising a hand to tell her to quit while she's ahead, she seems to not notice. Or ignore him. He's not sure. No point in caring about that, is there. "I'm not doing improve classes." He's a perfectly good liar about the things that matter. He's walked around every day since he was twelve as if Rafael del Bosque were his father, and no one has ever stopped for even a second to doubt the legitimacy of that claim.

Maybe there's a man out there somewhere that can see past del Bosque smoke and mirrors, but even if Andrea did want to look for him, he wouldn't know where to start.

"Besides, why do you care? This is the second night in recent memory that you've insisted on... acting like you care about me. What's your spin? Mother or father sent you to ask me questions until I get annoyed with you? That's already happened, by the way. Both times you've brought up psychics and astrology."

#with: greta du bois.

semidull

“May I recommend the Café del Molino? It’s a Mill classic—made with raw cane sugar syrup. It’s a strong brew, but perfect for a day like this.” (@unlegitimate)

unlegitimate

"I'll take the strength, but just milk'll do for me." Does he look like someone who seeks out Mill classics?

#with: joey iverson.

misflung

“Oh, I hated it,” River says plainly. He doesn’t mean it, of course—when does he ever?—but he figures now is the time for an icebreaker. “C’mon, man—just say what you wanna say. You don’t care what I think about the trout. Your family’s really got it out for the du Bois, huh?”

unlegitimate

"Yeah, I'm certain you did," Andrea mutters under his breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw, the other hand clutching a glass that's half-empty because he'd asked the bartender to pour it that way. He doesn't know what his family's thinking. He's not involved in those meetings, not invited to that table... He clenches his jaw, raises the glass to his lips, doesn't sip, but smells. If he starts drinking now, there'll be no stopping. He lowers the glass. "The makings of government are none of my business."

#with: river matsen.

thcusandcuts

It's here beneath the lights and the stars and the glamour, Barry can't help but see Andrea as he really is: a Del Bosque. He might rail and disagree, but there's a difference between the two of them, even if Andrea wears his family name like an ill-fitting suit. But that difference is marginal to Barry, all things considered. It's why he can get along with him, if he doesn't act like his siblings, even tonight at a state dinner where he feels like he should just walk into the ocean and never be seen again. "Pretty guy in a suit like you? You're bound to make waves anyway," he says, situating himself next to him with a cat-like grin on his face. It's a shame they're not in Amnesia; he thinks the man could do with a couple of downers. "Shit aside, you're part of that family. There's always gonna be waves, even if you like it or not."

unlegitimate

"Everyone here's wearing a suit." Even the help. It's a formal event, if someone showed up in anything less than a suit he's sure they'd be escorted from the premises posthaste. He takes a few slow, deep breaths, looking down at the ground beneath the balcony, feeling like some useless, pathetic heroine in a bad romance novel, waiting to be saved from a fate she never asked for. Embarrassing. That's no one's business, though.

He can't show any sort of weakness, not when he doesn't know who has a camera (or a fucking microphone, apparently, he can't wait to find out the consequences of that fuckup), no matter how badly he wants to rub at his eyes and push his hands through his hair and loosen his tie. "Yeah, I hadn't noticed that before, thank you for that apt observation," he says, words dripping in sarcasm. "I didn't ask for this, you know." He wasn't involved in any of the planning of the night, he's sure that he wouldn't be involved in any family business, if the rest of the family had any say in it. "It's a smaller island than it seems."

#with: barry kennedy.

simone-montgomery

While the rage still exists at his flippant disregard for human life, she can't help the wickedly smug smile that slices her lips. And she laughs, mostly in disbelief. She's good, but she's rarely this lucky. "The people relying on the island's outdated minimum wage can't afford a single luxury spa treatment-- let alone a whole ass holiday." She spits the words quietly, passing her glass to wandering attendant with a grateful nod. Reaching into the folds of fabric at her side, she pulls our her phone, keeping it safely in her palm.

"But you know, it's actually sort of refreshing to hear someone from your family finally say the quiet part out loud." Simone meets his eyes as she resumes speaking, though what passes between them is something colder than ice. "With any luck, your family will feel the same way tomorrow morning when they read my overview of the party. And don't worry, your quote will be exact. I think it's important for the people to really grasp your out-of-touch distaste for them the way you intended it."

With a flash of teeth through her grin, she adds, "Have a wonderful rest of your night, Andrea." Before turning and walking away through the crowd, her fingers already typing at her phone.

unlegitimate

She thinks she's caught him under a glass like a bug. He's not so certain. If security doesn't go through her phone at the end of the night, he'll be surprised. If they do and don't bother deleting the voice memo of whatever he'd just said, it'll be a waiting game to see if the people of Coronado care what a non-public figure like himself has to say. It's not as if he holds any power in his family, nor in society. He's a failure of a son with a law degree and no job to show for it.

Additionally, du Bois media has always been biased... can the people really trust a word she says? "I don't care about the people, Miss Montgomery. And they oughtn't care about me. If they do, they're bigger fools with even more time on their hands than I'd previously thought."

His face is neutral as she walks away. Inside, he is slightly worried, but only slightly. What's the worst that could happen? His family already thinks he's a disgrace. He can't remember the last proper conversation he'd had with his mother, and his father only has time for him to tell him he simply isn't good enough, time and time again. It's not as if they'll put him out on the streets. They can't afford those optics.

"Best of luck," he mutters under his breath. Whether it's directed at Simone or himself, that's unclear. He'll just go for a breath of air on the balcony and then put on a happy face... again.

#with: simone montgomery.

glittergab

"Oh my god, thank you, Greta. You're such a doll, caring about my cosmic fate, helping me smell less like an alcoholic– is what you could say."

Still, she takes the jacket, draping it over the work bench and dampening one of the napkins with the water and using it to dabbing at the slightly darker stain while also surreptitiously feeling for any notable lumps in the coat lining and inner pockets.

"The fourth house is about home, family. How were you raised, your feelings of belonging." She leans back, taking in the jacket, eyes flitting to his shirt. Black on black. A blank slate that's already been colored all the way in. Bo-ring.

She feels an odd mixture wired and acutely focused. It could be partially credited to draining a flute the moment they sat down for dinner but an unsettled vibration deep in her bones tells her it's more than that, that if she would just sit still long enough to self-reflect, she would be able to name it. Her foot starts tapping along with the radio.

"Are you having fun?"

unlegitimate

"I don't need anyone to care about my cosmic fate, because cosmic fates don't exist." Andrea pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, turning his back to her so he could take a breath without her eyes boring a hole into his being.

As he's breathing, getting closer and closer to regaining his composure, he's grateful for the time alone. The kitchen is loud, he hadn't realized how loud those places could get, all of the restaurants he's been to with open concept kitchens seem to run harmoniously, so why the fuck is there someone shouting about lemons right now? All that being said, it's nice, not having to put on airs for ten whole minutes; they're too busy yelling about lemons to realize that Andrea del Bosque is mere minutes away from a breakdown on top of a box of crates.

And then she's back to talking about his cosmic fate. "Didn't ask..." he mutters under his breath, closing his eyes, taking one more deep breath before turning around to face her again. "You know how I was raised, you don't need to ask a psychic about it." He's a del Bosque, even if only in name – his entire childhood was practically broadcast for the masses. (Admittedly, not literally, like hers was, but still... that's not his fault, is it.)

"It's a lovely party, my mother's planning paid off in droves." It's a well-rehearsed answer, one he's used a multitude of times tonight. He wouldn't describe any of this as fun – it's more familiar than fun. This isn't his first extremely expensive rodeo, and it certainly won't be his last.

#with: greta du bois.

"River." He's trying to be cordial after the night he's already had. "What did you think of the trout?" He's a good host. Or, well, he's trying to be. This way, he won't be pulled into even more conversations he doesn't want to have.

@misflung

#with: river matsen.

thcusandcuts

for @unlegitimate—

To be in the higher reaches of society is something that Barry considers a pleasurable side-effect of his former job, but this felt less like decadence and more like a bloated corpse, washing up on the beach. It doesn't help that the top people here, the actual movers and shakers are people that he can't exactly stand, much less swallow. Hell, he even saw the guy that broke his kneecaps, and he had to bolt. Champagne flute in hand, he finds a secluded space to take a second, to steel and center himself before coming back out.

This was a bad idea—but he has to see it through. It wasn't enough, the marginal slip into being a nonentity, when he had a good run, a perfect season of people cheering him on. But this is reparations to him. One of these motherfuckers put a hit out on Leon, and he was collateral, so he had to collect. To make it worth it. At least, it's what he tells himself; lies are the only thing getting him up out of bed in the morning sometimes.

Barry nurses the drink, and looks at the approaching figure, familiar in its gait as he tries to straighten himself up. It wouldn't do to have emotions, after all. "Well, look at what the tide washed up." He says, a small smile coming around to his face. "I thought you didn't want to make waves? What gives, you lose a bet or something?"

unlegitimate

Mostly, he's looking for a place to be alone for all of five minutes. He's spent the whole night practically fending off attacks from any given partygoer; he's done having the same fucking conversations over and over and over again. With his notebook securely locked in his safe at home, Andrea has no place to get out all of the feelings that are practically churning up bile in his stomach – he needs some tranquility.

That doesn't come, of course. Why would it? "I'm not making waves," he tries not to snap as he goes to lean against the railing of the balcony, with the hope that fresh air will clear his head and make him able to return to the night's pomp and circumstance without much hassle. "If you want waves, go find my mother, I'm sure she'd be delighted to talk about the waves she's making in this crowd."

#with: barry kennedy.#sorry this is short i wanted to get out a reply pre-bedtime

glittergab

She pulls him through a set of silver swing doors. A few heads turn but most remain fixated on slicing identical cubes of cheese and tender peach flesh. A man caramelizing butter on the stove whistles with a glint in his eye that flashes recognition. Greta's molars grind together as she winks and waves. She ends up pinning a passing dishwasher with a smile. "Could you do me a tiny flavor? Do you have any club soda or whatever?"

One overpriced bottle of sparkling water in hand later, she parks Andrea next to an empty peach crate just off the main kitchen and starts fishing around underneath a work bench for a stack of cloth napkins. "I didn't ask her anything." Lie. "The planets tell her what to tell me. You were born under a super unlucky star by the way. Your fourth house is totally fucked." Probably true.

A radio by the prep station is playing a top-40 ear worm, rhythmic with the twang of a metallic guitar and percussive drum and güira. Greta pops up humming along, a bundle of napkins tucked under her arm. She positions the lip of the water bottle against the edge of the bench and in a single well-practiced downward pull, pops off the cap.

She holds out a hand. "Here, gimme me your jacket."

unlegitimate

He's out of place here, in the kitchens. He feels as if a diamond was just thrown into a pile of shit. Any other night, he might rethink that, might feel worse about that thought, but after everything that's happened tonight, frankly, he deserves better than what he's been given. The wolf whistle makes it worse. He resists the urge to bare his teeth and growl like some sort of animal. He has airs to keep up, a familial reputation resting on his shoulders in front of these commoners.

"I don't know what any of that means," he says through gritted teeth, "and how does your psychic know about me if you didn't bring me up to her?" He doesn't believe her lie. Everyone on the island knows any del Bosque with sense wouldn't be congregating with a du Bois regularly, so why would a du Bois' psychic of all people make the assumption that Greta knew Andrea personally? And don't say it's because she's psychic. Psychics aren't real, and he has liquor down his back, and he knows it's going to dry sticky. He desperately wants a shower.

The song that's playing is unfamiliar to his ears. Like with his phone, he prefers music that was made generations prior, all strings, no lyrics. He's at peace when he's watching the sinfónica, more so than he is most anywhere else. This music is almost grating to his ears (or, perhaps, it's the stickiness from the alcohol, and the interactions he's had with his family all night, and the fact that he hasn't had even a second of pece and quiet since his arrival). Andrea sheds his jacket in an attempt to lessen the amount of liquor that will dry, sticky and odorous, to his back, and hands it over. "It's black, I don't know what that... that-" he gestures to the bottle, "what that'll do for it."

#with: greta du bois.#he would not he was lamenting about its absence while having his Breakdown In The Garden (tm)

simone-montgomery

It’s a shame he doesn’t take her, completely and utterly ridiculous, bait. Just when she thought he could be fun, he plays what she assumes is the pretentious card in his deck: Mansplaining the ‘price of luxury’ to such a lowly form such as herself. What an asshole.

Simone glances at the party going on around them to keep from rolling her eyes. “This may surprise you,” Simone starts, just casually enough. “but economics is a required class for most majors nowadays.” And also fifteen years ago. And likely thirty years ago. And maybe, probably, even longer. In that she’ll admit that she’s no expert. “Worth the cost? I suppose it’s just so unfortunate that the hefty price of all that luxury isn’t shared with people who actually contribute to it's creation.” She takes a slow and intentional sip of her overpriced alcohol.

“I don’t know many of the field workers personally,” A careful admission, as that hard edge once again hits her tone. “But if this is local, Coronadian caviar– which I assume it is, given the theme of tonight– I do know most of the dock and factory workers that the two major suppliers employ. Do you know how many of them are at risk of losing the roof over their heads? How many of them work from sunrise to sunset, hoping to bring in enough fish to scoop eggs out of, or make enough tins that day to be able to just barely afford to feed their families?” The casual ease that made up her smile before dissolves into something sharper and filled with venom, but she doesn’t get loud. Worse, she stays deathly calm.

“Don’t presume it’s me who doesn’t understand the price your luxury demands, Mr. Del Bosque.”

unlegitimate

Sun and fucking stars, Andrea does not want to be having this conversation anymore. Can't she fuck off and bother literally anyone else? He's the youngest son, his status in the family is next to nothing, he's nearly positive that he wouldn't be invited if there was some family meeting to discuss upcoming business ventures. So, really, what does he know about Coronadan production of anything? He goes where he's told to go, smiles for the cameras, signs paperwork he's told to sign. He's like a fucking welcome mat, letting everyone walk over him – as if the del Bosques would have a welcome mat at the front door in any lifetime.

"If they're at risk of losing their homes, that seems, to me, like a fault of their own budgeting. Minimum wage was worked out to ensure that everyone in Coronado can survive on what they're paid. Perhaps tell them to take fewer luxury holidays if that's such a concern." People's income and how they spend it is none of his business. Perhaps they should have outlawed sports gambling a long time ago. Again, not his business. He has no desire to make or change any laws in Coronado.

"Miss Montgomery, if you'd like to ask questions about the prices of anything at this event, I suggest you speak with my mother. I'm simply here to celebrate the night and honor our new Premier." Let Luciana deal with all of this.

#with: simone montgomery.#im sorry about his rich person ass. i think he should shut up too

glittergab

who: @unlegitimate when: between the beef and cheese

It's a shame because it's a very nice suit, but Greta doesn't let guilt the better of her, not when there's likely a row of near identical suits laundered, pressed, and hung two exacting inches apart in the neuroses factory where Andrea was made.

Timing is everything. It's the theme of the evening, publicly and privately, and rising from her seat under the guise of swinging by Nora's table just when spines are starting to slouch is no exception. She's on her way back when she passes Desmond Ormsby hovering near Andrea's table. The man is red in the face, his hand gripping his rocks glass like a lifeline. She nudges his elbow and just like that, his drink cascades onto Andrea's suit.

Ormsby blusters an apology, Celestine Nethersole is busy despairing about the splashback on her hem, and Greta cups one hand on Andrea's elbow, intent on drawing him away to the kitchen where if he's very lucky, fizzy water and napkins will help lift the stain.

Amid it all, she manages to get in lowly, "See, if you had texted me I could've warned you that my psychic said this would be a tough day for you."

unlegitimate

Night can't get worse. Andrea keeps repeating that to himself in his mind as he continues about the party, making small talks with friends of Rafael's. There's a voice, a dangerous voice, in the back of his head, whispering to him: do any of these people know your real father? Would they be able to tell you stories about him? Did he smile often? Laugh easily? Or was he as stoic and flat-faced as any del Bosque ought to be? Was? Is? Where is he? Who am I?

Night can't get worse. He's sitting at his table between courses, having just finished a conversation with a table mate – why his mother would've thought to seat him with Chester Marlbank of all people is beyond Andrea, unless she wanted to torture him. She probably wanted to torture him.

Night can't get worse. Until he's soaking wet with some drink spilled down his back. He quickly rises to his feet, biting back every curse he's ever learned; this is still polite society, and a del Bosque can't be seen cursing out guests, no matter the cause. He does his best to sound reassuring as he tells Ornsby that it's fine, that the suit is black, that no one will notice.

And then Greta du Bois is pulling him by the elbow, and the night's gotten worse. Andrea tries not to sigh heavily, but he follows, not wanting to peel the soaking wet jacket from his shoulders in front of the crowd. "I told you. I don't text, and I don't believe in psychics, and why are you asking your psychic about me?"

#with: greta du bois.

unlegitimate

Just be fucking normal for four fucking hours, and then you can go home and sit in your library or go to bed and pretend none of this ever happened. Andrea doesn't want to be a failure. He doesn't want to be seen as he knows he is - the disappointment, the shame, the embarrassment. Not good enough. Never good enough. Was he good enough as a child, before he knew that he'd never been Rafael's son? No, probably not. The way his mother treats him now mustn't have changed since he was a child. She never truly loved him. She never will love him. He needs to come to terms with that sooner rather than later.

"Yes, there's an agradecimiento in the post," he answers; his posture has significantly relaxed, though. It's genuinely a gift he will use – even if the notebook will simply have to be burnt within the year. He can't have his every thought piling up in his desk for anyone to break into. If he had his notebooks going all the way back to when he was thirteen, he can only imagine what people (his family, a servant, who's to say) might've found in them. "But I ought to thank you in person as well. It's a very kind gift, and it will get plenty of use. You'll be in my mind whenever I do." At least the pen will survive the burning of the notebook. It's a beautiful thing. It may even come to replace his favorite someday.

unmarkt

“Father will be most pleased to hear that you like it.” He very well should, Fumiko thinks. These gifts aren’t for the sake of materialism—they’re symbolic and serve a purpose, as with everything her family does. The del Bosques wield the power to command death if they so choose, while the Shibatas are the canvas they plot on—and with. They’ve always meant for every gesture to be made to strengthen the ties that bind their families. Andrea should be more than grateful that he’s a part of a sacred tradition. Though, it does make her wonder: does it haunt him that his illegitimacy impedes him from accessing the privileges his siblings have? How pitiful. How… familiar. Fumiko once again nods, breaking herself out of her brief reverie to say, “I do hope you’ll be able to share with me what use you’ll find it for. I know your siblings have their own stories. But I must excuse myself for now; I have to speak with Katashi on an important matter, and I believe he’s finally arrived.” A lie, though niceties are their common denominator. “Enjoy your evening, Andrea. Take a chance on that Tenebrial, if nothing else, will you?” Fumiko gives him one last sly glance, as if her eyes were half-lidded, and then she gracefully walks away, leaving him alone. THE END.

#with: fumiko shibata.#reblogging for posterity or w/e

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