kinkfest | Red Ink (Princess Tutu, Fakir/Autor, G)

Title: Red Ink
Author:

laurus_nobilis
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Word count: 407
Prompt: Princess Tutu, Fakir/Autor: With (boy)friends like these... - Every writer needs an editor. A ruthless, tyrannical, implacable, ironfisted editor.
Summary: A good editor needs to be strict.

Fakir was starting to regret having agreed to this. It had only been a few days, and Autor was already close to driving him insane. And it had seemed like such a good idea at first, too. A second opinion was necessary. If Drosselmeyer had had an editor to stop him from going overboard, things would have been much easier for everyone, he was sure.

There was a tiny problem, however. Fakir wanted someone who helped him control his power. Autor, apparently, just wanted to massacre his work.

"You said I should just let the words flow!"

"To be corrected later," Autor said, perfectly calm, without even looking up from the page. He was correcting in red ink and, by this point, the original black letters were almost invisible beneath it.

"We were supposed to discuss the changes," Fakir insisted. He crossed his arms and glared, but the other boy didn't react.

"And we will, of course. Once I finish reading it. I can't have a proper opinion until I've seen the whole picture."

"But you can still cross out half of it and write all over the page?"

"Those are just notes. I don't want to forget my impressions –"

"You're going to ruin it!"

"Fakir, honestly," Autor sighed, as he looked up at last. "It's only a first draft. Don't be so sensitive about it."

"I'm not being sensitive!" he exclaimed. Then he realized that he had just proved he was, and forced himself to calm down. "That is my story you are tearing to pieces, you know."

"Well, you certainly are passionate about your writing, at least," said the other boy. He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Hmm. I wonder..."

"What?"

"If that is why you have this talent and I don't."

Fakir stared at him, taken aback. That wasn't what he had been expecting to hear. In any case, it softened him considerably.

"... do you still wish it was different?" he asked. Autor seemed to hesitate for a moment; soon enough, however, he recovered the enthusiastic glint in his eyes.

"We are clearly meant to work as a team," he said, and Fakir had enough tact not to point out that he hadn't really answered. "A writer needs passion, yes, but a good editor should have a cold mind to correct his work in an objective manner."

Perhaps, Fakir thought, it would be a good idea to hide all that red ink.