Strutting and Fretting: chapter five (b)
“I’m fine,” Porthos says. “A little tired, that’s all. Aramis wanted to sleep. Well, to snuggle, really.”
“Okay. Do you want some dinner?”
“Not particularly.”
“Great. I’ll leave you to your snuggling.”
Porthos watches him get up, and then calls him back. d’Artagnan smiles widely at him.
“Thanks, is all,” Porthos says.
“Sure,” d’Artagan says, and wanders off.
Porthos presses his face into Aramis’s hair, wriggling closer, holding him a little tighter.
“He’s a good one, ‘mis. Let’s keep him forever,” Porthos mumbles, letting himself sink back.
He wakes to Athos standing over him, staring at him, unblinking. It’s more than a little disconcerting, but Porthos rolls with it. Aramis is gone, which means it’s probably morning, and Athos is in his pyjamas, which means it’s either early, or late and Athos is hungover. Porthos squints at his watch, and sees it’s the former. He sits up and waits for Athos to spit out whatever it is that has him hovering like a six year old on Christmas morning. Or after a nightmare might be more accurate.
“What’s wrong?” Porthos asks. “Is Aramis okay?”
“He’s fine. No one ended up in the canal. They’ve all gone to the pub down the towpath, looking for a fry up,” Athos says. “I don’t want to be Creon. I’m about to get dressed and join them, I thought I’d wake you. Aramis said to tell you something soppy I can’t remember the exact words but he used both darling and love, so. Now, I’m going to go shower.”
Athos turns on his heel and starts to make his escape. Porthos gets a firm grip on his pyjama top and then sets about waking up more. Athos isn’t getting away, unless he gets out of his clothes which would be dramatic even for him, so Porthos takes his time yawning and stretching and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“You don’t have to be Creon,” Porthos says. “We can cut him, add more for someone else. Works fine for me.”
“Good. Breakfast?”
“Stop trying to stop me talking about it.”
“You can talk about it all you like, I have nothing to say on the matter.”
“Fuck’s sake, you’re a nightmare. Come on, lie down and cuddle with me while I wake up. Aramis has buggered off and I want morning snuggles,” Porthos says.
Athos obliges, with a little grumbling. Porthos just grumbles wordlessly back. He wants cuddles, he’s a cuddly person, he’s going to have cuddles. He wraps himself tightly around Athos and sighs in contentment.
“Now you have your human teddy bear, what am I meant to do?” Athos asks.
“Tell me stuff,” Porthos mumbles. “Your hair smells nice. You already showered. Why did you get back into your jammies?”
“Quick escape route,” Athos says, with a sigh. “Good excuse - time for my morning shower. I just don’t want to do anything, it feels stressful, trying to learn the lines. Everyone else is having fun with it, but I don’t seem to know how to do that. How does one go about having fun?”
“If one is you? Mostly you drink wine, currently. And see Sylvie. She makes you more playful. Just find moments you enjoy, that’s fine. If acting isn’t one right now, you can sit with me and order people around.”
“I like the sound of that. Can we go for breakfast, now?”
“I do actually need to shower. Oh, we’ve not got a shower on the side, this time, do we? Showerless moorings. I’ll have to squish myself into the little box. Sigh, Athos. Long, terrible sigh.”
Athos giggles, and Porthos ticks his ‘cheer Athos up’ box, and heaves himself out of bed. They find the others sat in a pub garden, eating waffles, fruit, and scones, a large pot of tea on the table with them. Athos snorts and goes to get himself coffee, which gets Aramis’s attention. It’s like he hasn’t seen Porthos in weeks. He bellows with joy and leaps up, jumping into Porthos’s arms, legs around his hips, kissing whatever skin he can reach.
“That’s a nice good morning,” Porthos says. “Very gratifying to see my company was missed.”
“It was! You have no idea how lonely I’ve been, waiting for you,” Aramis says, putting his feet back on the ground and holding Porthos’s face, kissing him properly. “I thought you might like the lie in, though, so I steeled myself and did my best without you.”
“Melodramatic kitten,” Porthos says, playing with Aramis’s hair. “I like it though. You should say hello like that every time.”
“Perhaps. Come and eat things, we have loads. They’re bringing us more waffles, you’re right on time. I got you some of that cloudy apple juice you like, and I’ve saved you an orange and some mango. They have great food here, and they have rooms to rent, we should come on holiday one time. There’s a river close, apparently, and a castle. Plenty to do.”
Aramis keeps on talking and Porthos listens. Or he half listens, anyway, absently, more focussed on the food in front of him than Aramis. He checks up on Athos, but Athos is entwined with Sylvie, whispering nothings to her, and looks perfectly content and happy. He catches Porthos looking and smiles a sunny smile. Porthos looks over to d’Artagnan, next, but he too looks happy, debating something with Constance. She’s laughing at him, but he doesn’t seem to mind that a bit.
“Are you listening to me?” Aramis asks.
“Sure,” Porthos says. “What were you talking about?”
“If you’d been listening, you’d know.”
“And then you wouldn’t have the great joy of repeating yourself. You love repeating yourself. Go on.”
Aramis does go on, grinning, happy with the sound of his own voice. That’s all his friends happy, Porthos thinks. He glances at Sylvie, and sees her smile which is all he can tell from her yet. Constance he knows better, but he still can’t tell if she’s actually happy. She seems to be having fun berating d’Artagnan for being young and uneducated in feminisms and womanly things, and she’s roping Sylvie in. It makes Athos pout, her attention drawn away, but only for a moment. Then he looks on as she decimates d’Artagnan, beaming at her.
“Porthos? You alright, babe? I know I babble on, but you usually at least pretend to listen.”
Porthos shakes himself. He remembers searching through feminist texts and criticisms and forums and debates, bel hooks and Maya Angelou, Womanism. Trying to locate himself, trying to work out why he never felt like he was a very good feminist no matter what he did, that he wasn’t standing up for women enough, wasn’t talking enough, wasn’t being silent enough. He never understood women. All those lists of things women think and do and experience, it had all felt like more of the same outside things. More expectations that he hadn’t lived up to.
And then he’d found the word transgender. He had felt more himself, then. But letting go of being a woman, of being part of that feminist movement, of what he’d tried centering himself on had been hard. He’d spent years locating power in his femininity, and then he’d discovered that he had to let it all go. Not be that afterall. It took him a long, long time to embrace the more feminine parts of himself again, to be able to without it making him deeply unhappy.
“Babe, you’re crying. Porthos.”
“I’m happy,” Porthos whispers. “You make me happy.”
“Oh good, because from here it looks like you’re sad.”
Aramis pulls Porthos close, then, wrapping his arms around Porthos’s head, cradling him close and hiding him. Porthos sighs, leaning into it. Aramis had changed things for him. Prancing around in heels and dresses, so comfortable in himself, with his masculinity and his femininity. Dressing up however he liked for nights out, for interviews. Letting everyone see his gentleness, his softness, crying openly. Things associated with femininity, with weakness.
“We should allow Medea more softness,” Porthos murmurs. “Now we’re cutting Creon, we can add some things. Give her more femininity. If Sylvie approves.”
“Alright, whatever you like. Are you alright? Porthos, are you okay? What happened?” Aramis asks, pulling back, thumbing the tears away. There aren’t many of them, it was dramatic of him to call a few tears crying.
“I’m alright. Maybe we could walk back?” Porthos says. “Or just walk. Me and you, eh?”
“Yes, whatever you want.”
They walk slowly, meandering along the towpath. When they reach a stile into a field they climb over and wander away from the canal. Aramis doesn’t chatter, he just walks, holding Porthos’s arm.
“I love you,” Porthos says, about half an hour away from the boat. “You’re good to me.”
“Mm. What happened, darling? You can call me dramatic as much as you like, but you were upset back there. Or at the least more emotional than you often are.”
“I guess it was a sort of flashback, in a way. Constance was talking about feminisms, and it threw me back. It just threw me. That word made me unhappy. Feminisms, female, femininity. All those things I tried so hard to embrace, and then to deny, and my relationship with all of it is just a bit fraught.”
“Fraught. That’s a dramatic word. But you’re okay?”
“Yes, for the hundredth time, I’m okay. I’ve been mostly thinking about Medea, while we walked. If I make her softer, does that associate femininity with instability and murder? With death?”
“Does it matter?”
“Spoken like a true man.”
“Spoken like someone who hasn’t been sucked into Tumblr madness.”
“Spoken like an arse. Shut up. I want it to be a feminist thing. I’ll ask Sylvie, and Constance, they’ll know. They’ll have ideas. Shall we make Jason and Aegeus’s relationship Grecian? We could, d’Art can pass for very young. Fuck, he is very young. He’s twenty four! Did you know that?”
“Nope. I thought he was younger,” Aramis says.
“My, what fools these mortals be,” Porthos says, ignoring Aramis. “So many different things to think about and write about, when it comes to love. All the different pageants we could perform. Grecian, then, or enough so that it can be read either way. We won’t make too much of their love affair, I think. Focus on Medea, and her friendship with the chorus.”
“As you like it,” Aramis says.
“I have spent my morning making much ado about nothing, and you have walked at my side measure for measure. Your love’s labours won’t be lost, all’s well that ends well, for you. I will live in your heart, die in your lap, and be buried in your eyes,” Porthos says, grinning.
“Your traveled, generous thighs
between which my whole face has come and come-
the innocence and wisdom of the places my tongue has found
there-
the live, insatiate dance of your nipples in my mouth-” Aramis croons, into Porthos’s ear, lips soft there, breath hot.
“Lady, I will touch you with my mind.
Touch you and touch and touch
until you give,” Porthos says, dragging him closer.
“Alright, ee cummings wins, he’s such a sexy fuck. But you have to give me points for obscurity.”
“Adrienne Rich. You like her. She’s not exactly obscure, either. Fine, if you want points, I’ll give you points. I don’t think me nipples can dance, though,” Porthos says.
It makes Aramis fall about laughing, and they wander back toward the boat without ravishing each other in a field, even if it was probably just going to be in poetic form. Metaphorical, poetic sex. Porthos hums as he walks, thinking of better quotes for next time.
Chapter Six