THE TRANSCENDENTALISTS STAR IN...
"WHITMAN'S LATEST SEXCAPADE"
A PERVERSION OF HISTORICAL FACT
Emerson glanced up calmly from the tome he was reading when something akin to a large bear came crashing into the room. "Ah, Walt, you've returned from your European excursion. I trust the travel suited you?"
"IT WAS AN INCREDIBLE TRIP!" he roared, jerking Thoreau out of his cross-legged meditation in the corner of the room. He flopped into the threadbare armchair by the fire, the one that he had claimed undisputedly for as long as any of them could remember. (Emerson preferred something with a straighter back, and Thoreau was distinctly uncomfortable with chairs, almost always taking refuge on the floor.)
"Could you try not to crash around so much at this hour of the evening?" Thoreau said. "You must be at least a little tired from your journey." He righted the inkwell he'd been using that had been upset by the earthquake-like stomping. With one bare foot, he prodded at the small puddle of ink, then winced when his toes stained black.
Whitman laughed, the sound deep and horribly manly. "Doesn't anybody want to hear what happened?"
"You might as well just tell us, if you're so eager," Emerson quipped, not raising his eyes from his book.
With a smirk, Whitman propped his feet up on Emerson's desk, knocking flecks of dirt off his boots and onto the pages. "Mr. Wilde," he said at length, "is a great kisser."
Thoreau's head snapped up. "You didn't."
"Oh, god," Emerson sighed, shoving at Whitman's boots.
"The Oscar Wilde?" Thoreau had now completely forgotten about the ink stain. "The gayest writer that side of the Atlantic? Honestly, I know you lack subtlety in all its many forms, but if this is how you intend to fool the moral police..."
"Oh, like you're one to talk about evading the police." Whitman rolled his eyes.
A blush rose on Thoreau's cheeks. "I've only been to jail once, and it was for a good cause," he muttered.
"You just didn't want to pay taxes because you were dirt poor from LIVING IN THE WOODS."
"It was a war protest," he hissed, tensed and dangerously close to upsetting the inkwell once more. "You ridiculous little - "
"Gentlemen, please," Emerson finally cut in. "Henry, we all believe that you were in the right, we've discussed this. And Walt, I'm sure Mr. Wilde won't go kissing and telling to the wrong people. Why don't we all just relax, and I'll make us a pot of tea?"
"I'M SICK OF THOSE BRITS AND THEIR TEA," Whitman declared, back to his usual self. He pulled a flask out of his jacket. "DRINKING IS AMERICAN!"
Thoreau settled back onto the floor and covered his face with one hand. He'd become accustomed to not hearing constant declarations of how American things are, and now a dull ache was settling in the front of his head. "Tea would be absolutely lovely right now, Ralph."
Whitman chuckled and took a swig of whatever he had in that flask, fully intending to spike Thoreau's tea when he wasn't paying attention.
With a deep sigh hinting at long-repressed suffering, Emerson gave up on reading and went to put a pot of water on the fire. He honestly could not recall how he'd come to share this house with these men - it seemed completely counterintuitive.
Whitman made a slurred comment about an embarrassingly intimate detail of Oscar Wilde's person, making Thoreau blush again and complain quietly about sharing too much information. Emerson sighed again, but when his back was turned, he couldn't help but smile a little. Living with them may be counterintuitive, but somehow he knew he could never actually leave.
A PERVERSION OF HISTORICAL FACT
Emerson glanced up calmly from the tome he was reading when something akin to a large bear came crashing into the room. "Ah, Walt, you've returned from your European excursion. I trust the travel suited you?"
"IT WAS AN INCREDIBLE TRIP!" he roared, jerking Thoreau out of his cross-legged meditation in the corner of the room. He flopped into the threadbare armchair by the fire, the one that he had claimed undisputedly for as long as any of them could remember. (Emerson preferred something with a straighter back, and Thoreau was distinctly uncomfortable with chairs, almost always taking refuge on the floor.)
"Could you try not to crash around so much at this hour of the evening?" Thoreau said. "You must be at least a little tired from your journey." He righted the inkwell he'd been using that had been upset by the earthquake-like stomping. With one bare foot, he prodded at the small puddle of ink, then winced when his toes stained black.
Whitman laughed, the sound deep and horribly manly. "Doesn't anybody want to hear what happened?"
"You might as well just tell us, if you're so eager," Emerson quipped, not raising his eyes from his book.
With a smirk, Whitman propped his feet up on Emerson's desk, knocking flecks of dirt off his boots and onto the pages. "Mr. Wilde," he said at length, "is a great kisser."
Thoreau's head snapped up. "You didn't."
"Oh, god," Emerson sighed, shoving at Whitman's boots.
"The Oscar Wilde?" Thoreau had now completely forgotten about the ink stain. "The gayest writer that side of the Atlantic? Honestly, I know you lack subtlety in all its many forms, but if this is how you intend to fool the moral police..."
"Oh, like you're one to talk about evading the police." Whitman rolled his eyes.
A blush rose on Thoreau's cheeks. "I've only been to jail once, and it was for a good cause," he muttered.
"You just didn't want to pay taxes because you were dirt poor from LIVING IN THE WOODS."
"It was a war protest," he hissed, tensed and dangerously close to upsetting the inkwell once more. "You ridiculous little - "
"Gentlemen, please," Emerson finally cut in. "Henry, we all believe that you were in the right, we've discussed this. And Walt, I'm sure Mr. Wilde won't go kissing and telling to the wrong people. Why don't we all just relax, and I'll make us a pot of tea?"
"I'M SICK OF THOSE BRITS AND THEIR TEA," Whitman declared, back to his usual self. He pulled a flask out of his jacket. "DRINKING IS AMERICAN!"
Thoreau settled back onto the floor and covered his face with one hand. He'd become accustomed to not hearing constant declarations of how American things are, and now a dull ache was settling in the front of his head. "Tea would be absolutely lovely right now, Ralph."
Whitman chuckled and took a swig of whatever he had in that flask, fully intending to spike Thoreau's tea when he wasn't paying attention.
With a deep sigh hinting at long-repressed suffering, Emerson gave up on reading and went to put a pot of water on the fire. He honestly could not recall how he'd come to share this house with these men - it seemed completely counterintuitive.
Whitman made a slurred comment about an embarrassingly intimate detail of Oscar Wilde's person, making Thoreau blush again and complain quietly about sharing too much information. Emerson sighed again, but when his back was turned, he couldn't help but smile a little. Living with them may be counterintuitive, but somehow he knew he could never actually leave.