Strutting and Fretting: chapter three
“You know what we should do?” d’Artagnan says. “Guys? I came to tell you my idea.”
It’s about three am, and they’re all asleep except for Athos and d’Artagnan who stayed up, sat in the bows drinking wine. So no one’s particularly happy to have d’Artagnan scrambling and tripping around the packed barge, falling on top of them. Porthos puts a stop to it by wrapping himself around d’Artagnan, stilling him. d’Artagnan gives an experimental wriggle, but he’s trapped. Porthos grunts in contentment and goes back to sleep.
They’re woken again about half an hour later when Athos comes looking for d’Artagnan, finally noticing he’s gone. He too stumbles and trips and ends up, squished and squeezed so they both fit, held in Porthos’s grip. Once they’re both asleep, Porthos shifts them until they’re clinging to one another instead of him, turns over, and pushes his face into Aramis’s shoulder until Aramis throws an arm over his waist. Then he goes to sleep, too.
Porthos wakes again to Sylvie and Constance talking in the galley, the smell of coffee, and food. He gets up and staggers through, sitting on the floor, hoping he’ll be gifted with some of the good smelling things. He’s given coffee but no food. Once he’s more awake he gets himself a bowl of cereal and goes out to the stern, scrambling up to sit on the roof, his legs off the side, looking at the canal.
It’s a nice spot, not too many people moored, every mooring short term so no old chairs and bikes and piles of crap littering the tow-path. Just their little boat, bobbing on the calm water, and the ducks. Not even geese, yet. A duck with two ducklings, grown grey and big but still cute, floats past. Porthos eats his cereal in contentment.
He’s interrupted by Aramis and d’Artagnan coming out to the stern, and Aramis grinning widely and so happily up at Porthos that Porthos knows there’s trouble on the way. Sure enough, Aramis pushes d’Artagnan in, causing a splash, disrupting the ducks and the ducklings and the calm water and Porthos’’s breakfast. Aramis climbs up to sit beside him, laughing, watching d’Artagnan splash for the bank.
“I’m going to get you, d’Herblay!” d’Artagnan shouts, trudging toward the shower.
Porthos shuffles along away from Aramis, which turns out to be a good idea: a moment later d’Artagnan changes tack sharply, vaulting up onto the boat and sliding into Aramis, knocking him into the water. And sailing after him. They both come up spluttering and laughing.
“Is every morning like this?” Sylvie asks, coming along the side from the bows and climbing up beside Porthos.
“Mm hmm,” Porthos says. “Except yesterday. Yesterday you were here for.”
“No swimming. What decides it?”
“Apparently how much Aramis farts. He’s been drinking less wine,” Porthos says.
Aramis and d’Artagnan have gone to the shower now, and the water’s returning to it’s peace. Porthos would quite like to be left on his own, but Sylvie seems to be settling in to stay and Athos is making his groggy, careful way to them from the stern. Aramis also joins them, when he’s showered. He sits behind Porthos, wriggling until Porthos is comfortably between his thighs. He’s got just shorts on, and Porthos wants to grumble about sun and sunburn, but it’s actually clouding over so he’ll have to find something else to channel his grouchiness into.
“So, I think we should turn the boat into a stage,” d’Artagnan says, as if continuing a conversation from earlier, wrapped in a towel, shouting from the stern.
“Go put clothes on,” Porthos growls.
“Don’t be grumpy,” Aramis says, kissing at his neck.
d’Artagnan does go to get clothes, and to get Constance. He makes sure they’re all listening, then puts his idea to them again.
“A stage. We can use the roof,” d’Artagnan says. “Something with pirates in it.”
“And when we all fall in?” Porthos mutters.
“We won’t,” d’Artagnan says, beaming like a fool. “We could dramatise Some Like it Hot, you love that film, Porthos.”
“No I don’t,” Porthos says.
“Or, or! We could do The Wind in the Willows!” Aramis says. “I’ll be Ratty. You can be Moley, Porthos. They’re gay.”
“They’re animals. d’Artagnan can be the toad,” Porthos says.
“What about ‘Down the River’? Mark Twain,” Sylvie says. “He was obsessed with rivers.”
“And you were obsessed with him,” Athos says, proudly, kissing her. “What about ‘The Weir’, Colin Macpherson?”
“Is that the terribly depressing thing you did in London a few years ago?” Porthos asks. “Jesus no.”
“The Tempest,” is Constance’s suggestion.
“What do you think, Porthos?” Sylvie asks. “Mark Twain, right?”
Porthos sighs, and gives in. So what if this is supposed to be a holiday, about taking Athos away from the theatre and work.
“We’ll do Medea,” Porthos says.
“That has nothing to do with canal boats!” Sylvie says, then falls backwards laughing.
Porthos smiles, reluctantly, but holds his ground. He wants to do Medea, and he will do Medea. He is, afterall, the director.
“What’s his name?” Porthos asks, not for the third time. It’s a weird name and it’s just not sticking.
“Aramis,” Flea tells him, losing her patience a little bit.
Porthos sighs, but steps into the theatre to meet Aramis. It’s not that none of the actors he meets fits the role. It’s more than he’d prefer it if Charon were there, as usual. And none of the actors are Charon. Which is a problem, because Charon is brilliant.
“Hi, I’m Aramis. I’ve been here a while, are you the guy I’m auditioning for?”
Porthos grunts and sits, middle of the audience, flicking through his script.
“Right. And you wrote this? You wrote, and are directing? That’s cool, that’s cool. I understand I’m coming in halfway into rehearsals, which is a bummer, but I like the part. Maybe we’ll all become famous from it, huh? That would be cool.”
“Could you just give me the first scene? I’ll feed you lines. Then the soliloquy you prepared, then you’ll go through the final scene with Flea,” Porthos says.
“Right! Yes, I prepared that, and I was given two scenes, before you came in. The first one, right! I can totally do that.”
“Did the damsons make good gin, this year?” Porthos says, ignoring the fluster and giving him the line.
To Porthos’s surprise, after tripping his way through the first line, Aramis plays it easily. He times the comedy right, and his physicality is great - Porthos even finds himself chuckling at the way Aramis spins in surprise.
“Okay,
that’s enough,” Porthos says, stopping Aramis halfway through a line. Aramis just nods, settling mid stage with an inane grin. “Soliloquy?”
Aramis does ‘My Last Duchess’. Porthos groans internally at first, but Aramis bring the silent interlocutor to life and speaks as if Porthos is the duchess, and it’s a little chilling. Porthos feels haunted, when Aramis gets done. Then Aramis gives a wide grin. Flea gets up on the stage without being asked and there’s a nice verbal tussle, but Porthos ignores the scene, looking between his two actors, searching for the spark. It isn’t Charon. It never will be Charon, he and Flea and Porthos had a bond. It works, though. Aramis flirts, and bickers, and nudges, and Flea seems open to it.
“Fine,” Porthos says. “Come in tomorrow, in the morning. We have no particular start time, tomorrow, we’re just rattling through lines and checking stuff, but I do mean morning. Don’t show up at twelve.”
“There’s one certain way to making sure I show up in the morning,” Aramis purs, slinking down to Porthos’s seat. “I like your play, Mr. du Vallon. Maybe you could show me more… of your writing? Hmm?”
“God, stop flirting with me and go away. Flea will probably take you for a drink. Flea! I’m going, lock up when you’re done pottering about!”
“You are terribly rude and mean,” Aramis says. No, he purrs it. Pouting. Hand against Porthos’s chest. Porthos stares at the hand, then at Aramis, and the hand gets removed. The pout vanishes. “Ah, sorry, I overstepped with that one.”
“Mm,” Porthos agrees.
“Pick up lines are a no, ridiculous flirting is a no. Is this a ‘we’re working together please be professional’ thing? Because I rarely am,” Aramis says, grinning. “And you’re very very lovely.”
“I think this constitutes harassment,” Porthos says. But he can’t imagine that Aramis is going to get more professional. He does a quick sum in his head, calculating if he can work with this, then calculating if he can work with this if he does what he wants to do. He decides, for one show, why not. “Fine. A drink. But. Only when I’m done directing you. If you still want to get a drink, I’m up for it. Flirt all you like, be unproffession. So long as you’re respectful, leave the women alone, they put up with enough from fucker they don’t need it from their colleagues, and do the part well, we’re set.”
“I will collect on the that drink with you, Porthos. Flea! Will you drink with me tonight?”
“The river is the rivers Styx and Acheron, the canal boat is the Corinthian house, the roof shall be where the chorus sits,” Porthos says. “‘Sacred rivers flow uphill; justice and all things are reversed’. Tragic enough for you, Athos?”
“Sylvie shall be Medea,” Athos murmurs, clearly distracted.
“I’ll be the Chorus,” Constance says.
They carry on casting themselves. Porthos lets them at it, busy himself, thinking about translations and previous productions and what to do about getting them an audience.
“Oxford,” he says, interrupting. “That’s the place to do it. I’ll need internet, so you’ll have to give in and give us the super box thing you use when you’re working, Athos.”
“Super box thing. Hotspot booster?” Athos asks. “Fine, but if I end up spending all day in bed watching Star Trek, on your head be it.”
“I’ll be turning the boat into an office, I’ll be kicking you out, you’ll be fine,” Porthos says.
He doesn’t actually turn the boat into an office, or boot Athos out. First he walks to the nearest town with a bookshop. Aramis tags along with him, holding his hand and chattering on without minding that Porthos is barely listening. He buys an ice cream in the town, and waits outside shops while Porthos searches for his translation, and when Porthos comes out of Oxfam, book in hand, Aramis cheers.
“Do you want an ice cream to celebrate, my love?” Aramis asks, leaning into Porthos’s side, stroking his shoulder, and looking up at him with beautifully acted adoration.
“Bloody actors,” Porthos grumbles, flicking through his book.
“Oh come on, we haven’t had sex in ages and you LIKE being adored. It gets you going!”
“Who did you end up being, again? Creon?”
“Jason,” Aramis says. “Athos wanted to be Creon. We thought about having d’Art be the nurse.”
“He can be Aegeus. And the Messenger. You’re all going to have to be the chorus, unless we do something.”
“Connie’s the chorus. All on her own.”
“Mm. Okay, I can work with that. She can be Sylvie’s ‘conscience’ type thing.”
“I can’t believe you’re actually gonna do this for us,” Aramis says, stopping Porthos to stroke his cheek and kiss him. “Thank you.”
“You’re the ones doing the work.”
“Bull. We both know it’s you who’s going to be working. We’ll faff about, do our bit on stage, and argue with you. You’ll be finding us an audience, publicising it, adapting the text, working out how the staging will go. It’s supposed to be a holiday. Athos and d’Art’s whims are not a good reason, if you’d rather not do this.”
“I want to. I love Medea, as you know.”
“Greek drama, Early Modern, and Chekhov. I wish Charon were here, that would be awesome. Charon could play ferryman and ship the kids away down the river and only we would get the joke.”
“Unless people checked the programme and found his name. Now, come on, let’s walk back. We can read this as we go, you haven’t read to me in ages.”
“I will read it, doing voices and all, if you promise we’ll get sex soon.”
“Deal.”
“Yay.”
Porthos gets the wifi out of Athos, that evening, and sits down with his laptop. First of all he emails a few people he knows in Oxford, to look for a good date and time and help with publicity. Then he searches nearby for a nice cheap hotel.
“Ath, can we stay moored here for three more days?” Porthos asks, squinting at the numbers.
“Yes, I suppose,” Athos says.
“I’ll give you your lines,” Porthos says, “you can focus on that. Aramis, you owe me twenty quid.”
“I do? Why? Do I pay you for sex, these days?” Aramis asks, sitting on the sofa beside him and looking at the screen. “Oh. Right. Take it from my account, or I’ll give you cash tomorrow.”
Porthos grunts and takes it from Aramis’s bank account. They generally just pay for things for each other, but they agreed ages ago that accommodation they’d split, as well as costs like a car or long journey costs. It makes life easier to just stick to that no matter what.
“We should meander towards Oxford. We have three weeks, then we perform,” Porthos says. “I’ll type up a working script tomorrow, and email it to you guys. I’m not printing it, you can do it yourself if you want it hard copy. Does anyone mind if I watch Star Trek, now?”
“Can’t we watch something fun?” Aramis complains, curling up against Porthos and worming his hands up under Porthos’s t-shirt. “Something like… 24. With more explosions.”
Porthos puts 24 on. He’s quite uncomfortable, though. His binder’s making him ache, and what he really wants is to get it off and lie down. Everyone’s inside, and there are no separate rooms. Porthos can feel his breathing speed up. Aramis notices it, too, and moves the laptop off Porthos’s lap, wriggling so he’s blocking Porthos from the room, kissing him, hands roaming. He gets Porthos’s binder off with little struggle, distracting Porthos.
“Thanks,” Porthos says, when he’s back in his t-shirt, sans-binder, not entirely sure how Aramis accomplished that.
“You’re welcome, babe. Do you want to lie down? I’ll be pillow,” Aramis says, already drawing Porthos down to crunch himself onto the sofa.
It should be tight and uncomfortable, being jammed in there, but with Aramis stroking his hair and rubbing over his back and side, and the TV playing the familiar Jack Bauer, and Athos and Sylvie drinking in the galley, and Constance sitting on the floor watching with them, and d’Artagnan reading Medea aloud to himself in the stern, it all feels safe and comforting.
“I need a day to myself, tomorrow,” Aramis says, when everyone’s busy elsewhere. “Do you think you could go write in a cafe, and take me with you?”
“Yeah, okay,” Porthos says.
“I’ll sit with you. You count as me being on my own. Oh crap, now I’m sad.”
“About what?” Porthos asks.
“Nothing. That’s how it works. At least I’m not numb.”
“Mm. Maybe we should just fork out, and get that room tomorrow night, as well as the one after,” Porthos says.
“Okay. I’ll cover it. TV pays better than theatre. Hopefully we’ll get renewed.”
“You’ll find out end of the week, right? Will it be a problem doing Medea?”
“No, I’m on holiday, I’m taking a break. I should hear by Thursday.”
Porthos sits up and redoes their booking, using Aramis’s card. He still goes to work in a cafe, the next day, and Aramis sits, drinking coffee, sketching, reading. Porthos half watches, keeping an eye on Aramis’s body language. He seems alright, but there is a tiredness to him, and he sometimes sits, for long periods, doing nothing. Not even sipping his coffee. Porthos puts an audiobook on and gives Aramis the headphones, and Aramis drifts, eyes glazing.
“I’m done, sweetheart,” Porthos says, rubbing Aramis’s shoulder.
It’s nearly two pm. Porthos has cadged together a working script and sent it off, along with some character notes and a few of his ideas about staging. Aramis looks up at him, blinking, and then nods, slow and thick. Porthos packs his stuff away and waits for Aramis to get himself together and get up. He gives a tip on his way out, even though this is just a Costa. The staff have been nice and welcoming, and left him to work. It’s not like he can’t afford a couple of quid.
“Are we walking to the hotel?” Aramis asks.
“We could call a taxi. It’s probably a half hour walk.”
Aramis shakes his head, linking their hands. He sets an easy pace, looking around. Porthos makes comments about the things they pass, pointing out a flower he likes, the sheep, the baby cow. Aramis said once that noticing things around him helped him, helped stay in the present and not go numb or float off. Porthos sings, as well, when Aramis starts to look sleepy. Aramis laughs, but then apologises and joins in.They fall into bed, when they get to their room, neither caring that it’s all of three pm. Aramis has
brightened up during the walk, and he’s very enthusiastic about baring Porthos’s body, finding his skin, pressing kisses all over him. Porthos is fine with it for a while, then he suggests a shower, and then he’d much prefer to focus on Aramis’s nakedness than his own.
“Alright?” Aramis asks.
“Body doesn’t feel right, give it a bit.”
“How about you wear a binder? And do tell me you brought that lovely strap on. Those harness lines make you look so hot and competent and like an assassin or something.”
Porthos laughs, but lets Aramis dress him up, hands running over his thighs, his belly, over his chest when he’s bound.
“I love you,” Aramis says, astride Porthos’s lap.
Porthos grunts in agreement, hips shifting. Aramis is lithe and naked and glorious, and Porthos doesn’t want to hear about sentiment right now.
“Get on with it. Ride me,” Porthos demands.
Aramis does as he’s told.
Chapter Four