#plus that's where i was planning to put my aro and ace flags.. was thinking directly over the closet space?

[autistic-shaiapouf]

Found the mug that holds all my incense + started arranging my books 💖

[general-du-vallon]

For @canadiangarrison for 11. pride proposal? (warning I am kinda not marriage romantic and will prob make this poly or aro or smth) Do none of the rest of you want sparkly glitter rainbow prompts? 

Porthos is sat atop the castle mound, wrapped in an ace flag, hair ruffled by the wind. He climbed the fence, everyone distracted by pride and not noticing one lone person not paying the three fifty to come up here. He’s watching Queen’s street, keeping an eye out for the parade, for Athos and Aramis. They texted about an hour ago to say they were at Radcliffe square and where was he? He’d told them to just carry on without him. He wants to watch, this year. Oxford pride is tiny, they don’t even close the roads for it, which makes it thrilling - walking through the crowds of every-day people, shoppers and tourists, stopping the busses on the zebra crossings. It’s an open invitation, they sweep people up with them, kids who are just caught up in it, who want to wave flags, who do it as a dare. Porthos’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

Ha I spotted you! We’re coming up

Porthos looks down the path and sees d’Artagnan and Constance making their winding way around the mound to him. Constance is wearing a big rainbow flag, like Porthos’s ace one, it flaps around her like a cape, and d’Artagnan’s hair is bright pink, his cheeks all glittered and sparkled and flagged up. Trans and pan flags covering his arms in smeared paint. Sylvie runs up after them, ribbons in her hair, taking Constance’s arm. Porthos sighs. He’d been enjoying his solitude, looking out over the city. The Nuffield tower, the old wall that runs toward George Street, the castle. The dingy, poorer bits down by Speedwell street. Simon House, probably closing making the homeless in a worse situation than ever.

“Hi!” d’Artagnan says, running over and wrapping his arms around Porthos, showering him in painty, glitzy kisses. “Are you being lonesome and broody?”

“Yes,” Porthos says. “Plus I’m really hungover after last night.”

That is not a lie. Porthos lets a smile escape; he and d’Artagnan spent most of last night at Plush, dancing. Constance had only stuck it out till eleven pm then headed home, and Athos and Aramis hadn’t even made the attempt. Porthos and d’Artagnan had danced the night away, though, the floor sticking to their feet, the heat turning them damp, the music pounding into them. d’Artagnan grins back at Porthos, now, and flops down beside him, leaning into him. He’s wearing a ‘black lives matter’ t-shirt, Porthos realises, and lets the smile come more willingly. Constance and Sylvie sit down too, exchanging kisses and greetings.

“Athos and Aramis are marching?” d’Artagnan asks. “We were going to, but we got up late.”

“We?” Constance says, laughing. “I was up ages ago. I think by ‘we’ Charlie means himself.”

“I was asleep twenty minutes ago,” d’Artagnan says, without shame, beaming at Porthos as if it’s the best thing ever.

“Right. Shush, I am being brooding and I have a headache,” Porthos says.

d’Artagnan zips his lips and wriggles to get comfortable against Porthos, shuts his eyes, and falls into a doze. Porthos looks down at him, bewildered as he often is by this gangly odd man, falling asleep at the drop of a hat, clear and pale and beautiful like some kind of Arthur Rackham illustration. The less creepy sort. Porthos takes d’Artagnan’s hand and looks out for the parade again. He can see Carfax tower, and Tom Tower on Christ Church, the big clock and the bell tower, telling different times. Porthos snorts. He never knows quite what to make of Oxford-ness. He studied here and loves the university, the buildings, the history. He finds the odd quirks of time hilarious and ridiculous, all Oxfords oddities, but also somewhere secret maybe he finds it all charming. Then his gaze rests on man he knows sits in the doorway down by the building works and his anger at the uncaring of everything fizzles.

“Broody,” d’Artagnan mutters, shifting, giving Porthos’s hand a squeeze.

Porthos’s breath catches as he sees the first of the marchers, hears the music, the chanting and singing, and he lets go of d’Artagnan’s hand getting to his feet, leaving d’Artagnan to flop about with the sudden removal of his ‘pillow’.

“They’re coming!” Porthos calls, wrapping himself in his flag and cheering, bouncing, excitement filling him. He can’t help it. Pride might be commercialised and tiny and badly planned, white and cis and male, and might have so many problems with the commity, but it’s Pride! “Wooo! Here come the queers!”

d’Artagnan laughs and gets up, jumping onto Porthos’s back, cheering in his turn, waving his tiny little flag madly. Porthos holds him up for a second, then gives in to his excitement and lets him go, takes off at a run, careening down the mound and out the gate shocking the woman taking tickets. He races out of the castle yard and up the street, over the crossing and down the small pathway left for pedestrians around the building works. He pauses to drop a few coins to the man sat begging and wishes him a happy pride, then he sprints up Queen’s street, shoving his way through the crowds down the side so he can get to the parade. He stands and cheers and yells until he spots Aramis and Athos, arm in arm, sparkling, joyful. Aramis is joyful anyway, Athos has hold of his copy of The Colour Purple and looks very serious. They both have on black lives matter shirts, too, and Porthos pushes his way to them, throwing himself into their surprised arms. Aramis laughs and kisses him and embraces him, Athos blinks in shock.

“We thought you weren’t coming!” Aramis says, turning Porthos so he walks forwards and doesn’t hold up the entire parade. Porthos turns again and goes backwards, beaming at them.

“I wasn’t, I got excited though,” Porthos says, and Athos cracks a smile. “Hi Athos.”

“Hello,” Athos says. “I’m glad you made it, you rather ruined my plans by brooding.”

“Sorry. Oh, I ran into the others, they were indulging d’Art’s hangover so they were late. What plans? Did you see the person with those big pink ostrich feathers? At the front? I want their feathers. We could buy me some feathers couldn’t we? We could. And the person on stilts! Gay stilts!”

Athos lets Porthos tell him all the stuff he saw in the parade and just holds his hand and listens quietly. Aramis has Porthos’s arm on the other side but is talking at the same time, not listening at all, sometimes talking to Porthos sometimes to the people around them- Athos’s book group, Porthos realises and says hi to the people he knows, telling them about the feathers in their turn. When they reach St. Ebbes street Athos comes to a halt.

“This is where we met,” Athos says.

“No it isn’t,” Porthos says. “It was in the church, the church is down there, we’re not – ”

“Close enough,” Athos snaps, holding up a hand to try and get Porthos to quiet. Porthos grins at him and kisses his cheek. His glittery cheek.

“Good. I had no glitter,” Porthos says, touching his lips. “Do I have glittery lips?”

“God, shut up for five seconds,” Athos says, and takes a deep breath. “Look, I’m not going to go down on one knee, my knees wouldn’t stand for it for one thing. For another it’s just too cheesy.”

“Ok,” Porthos says, not really listening, looking around to see if he can get more glitter. Then he stops and replays that. “Your knees? Do your knees hurt, old man?”

“Yes, actually, but that’s not the point,” Athos says.

“Did you wear your brace?” Porthos asks, trying to see through Athos’s trousers.

“Yes, shut up!” Athos says, and the parade is getting ahead of them now, the music dwindling.

They were already close to the end and now they’re being passed by the stragglers, the hangers on, those who’ve been swept up, chatting and meandering. Porthos watches them all, beaming, thinking about all the queers around him. Athos takes another deep breath.

“Here come the others,” Aramis says, gently, squeezing Athos’s shoulder.

Porthos turns and sure enough d’Artagnan, Constance and Sylvie are coming through to them. Porthos tries to go and greet them but then he remembers that Athos is trying to say something or do something or something. He turns back to Athos and kisses his other cheek, getting glitter off that one, too.

“I’m paying attention,” Porthos tells Athos.

Athos looks so little and serious, his book clutched to his chest, Porthos’s hand held tight, all covered in glitter but still so straight-faced. Porthos hugs him and kisses his hair, Athos isn’t actually short he’s as tall as Porthos really, more or less. But Porthos wears little heels on his boots and makes himself seem and feel taller, it’s always a bit of a surprise when he has to tip his head back to get the top of Athos’s hair.

“What I was going to say,” Athos says, untangling himself from Porthos. “What I was saying. Um.”

The other’s come up and encircle them, and Porthos lets himself smile, and lets Athos off the hook. He lets go of Athos’s hand pressing a kiss to the knuckles and holds him by the shoulders to still him, then fishes the box out of Athos’s waistcoat pocket, where he usually has his pocket watch. Porthos gets down onto his knees instead and opens the box.

“Will you, Athos of the most glittery cheeks, marry me?” Porthos says.

“Fuck, I hate you sometimes,” Athos says, looking down at Porthos. Then he laughs. “Fine, but you have to let me propose ok? I mean yes I’ll marry you, but you just stole my proposal! And my ring!”

“Yep,” Porthos says, getting up and putting the ring on, taking Athos’s hand again. “These guys are invited too, right?”

“Of course,” Athos says, looking around. “Porthos is proposing to you lot as well, what do you say?”

“I thought we were all already married,” d’Artagnan says, looking confused. “Didn’t Aramis make us do that Pagan thing a while back?”

“It wasn’t Pagan,” Aramis says., affronted. “It was a nature ceremony.”

“I’m proposing to Athos,” Porthos says. “I’m marrying him. You guys are just part of our lives, always. Seeing as we live with all of you.”

“Yeah, it’d be hard to kick you out, you all being on the lease,” Athos says, ruefully, sighing dramatically. “Many times have I tried.”

Porthos sniggers and nuzzles into Athos’s hair, pressing kisses to his neck. He whispers a ‘yes’ into Athos’s ear too, and holds up their hands to examine his ring, biting his lip to keep his pleasure inside. It feels so traditional and solemn, and so not them. A proposal at pride. But he loves it, and he loves Athos, and Athos likes the little bits of tradition sometimes. And it will be nice to marry Athos. They wend their way to the castle quarter, listen to the music, browse the stalls, then Porthos plonks himself down on a bit of grass and stakes his claim on the space, sending Constance on a food run. She’s the best person to send on a food run because she has no impulse control when it comes to lunch, she’ll get them all the best things and only share with Porthos. He smiles up at the sunshiney sky and wraps himself in his flag again. He has Athos’s rainbow flag, too, so he wraps himself in that as well. He’s just contemplating how he can commandeer the rest of their flags when Athos comes over grinning. He sits down, stretching his bad leg out with a wince, then turns to Porthos and holds out the biggest, plasticest, rainbowest ring Porthos has ever seen.

“Oh,” Porthos says, biting his lip again. “Oh, yes!”

Athos laughs and takes Porthos’s hand, kissing the ring already on his left ring finger, then holding the rainbow one up.

“Porthos, I want to do this properly, or sort of properly anyway,” Athos says. “I wanted to kneel in the middle of pride and go viral, to leap over the barriers in London and fuck the police and their ‘safety’ and their ‘protection’, I wanted to say fuck pride and fuck commercialism and just break everything down to get to you and kneel there, with everyone watching, the world watching. Because you did that, you know? You broke all the barriers and all the hurdles and just swept me up and kept me safe. And I hope I do the same for you, I hope that I make you safe. I wanted this to be big and romantic, but here we are at our own little Oxford pride and I thought, this is probably better. Just me and you, in a way, in our city, where we met.”

“We met – ”

“Or close enough,” Athos interrupts, smiling, touching Porthos’s cheek. “Shh. I wore the star of David on my flag today because you make me feel safe, that’s important to me. I want to make you my husband, I want to be your husband, we can do it in our own queer platonic non-platonic way with all our poly extras and just live the way we want. I promise that. But I want this security for you. It isn’t much, I know. But at the end of the Queer British Art show I saw the way your face fell when that video said that visibility isn’t emotional security, or financial security, or job security. I know you want to fight for those things. If you marry me, I can give you the first two.”

“Yeah ok,” Porthos says, sniffing back tears. “I guess. It’d be ok to marry you, I mean, if I have to.”

“You do have to,” Athos says. “I just made a big ridiculous speech. Plus I basically proposed twice because that other one counts as mine too.”

“Ok,” Porthos says.

Athos laughs and embraces him and rubs his back and tells him he’s ridiculous for crying, but uses the edge of the flag to dry his tears and cradles his face. They’re kissing when Constance comes back with all the food she can gather. In honour of their engagement she even lets Athos share some of it, and Aramis and Sylvie bring more, and they draw in other people they know. It turns into a celebration of their engagement and everyone laughs at them for being squares, to which Athos, who has been drinking gin out of Treville’s hip flask that he snuck in, gets to his feet and gives a confused and wavering speech about the Bloomsbury lot, the rainbow ring gigantic on his finger. Everyone cheers him even though it’s nonsensical. d’Artagnan curls up against Porthos while Athos sits with Aramis and Sylvie to tell them about his proposal.

“I’m glad you haven’t been gloomy all day,” d’Artagnan says, with a yawn, stretching and then curling again. “Come dancing later? Plush after party promises to be glitzy.”

“Yeah ok,” Porthos says, watching Athos, frowning just a bit. “Tonight, yes, tonight we can be glitzy and dance and pretend this is all ok and we’re not actually worried by the police in uniform over there, or the Lloyds bank stall.”

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan says, grimacing. “What’s with that? Fucks, as Athos would say.”

“His favourite word,” Porthos says.

“His favourite word,” Constance says, coming over with a plastic cup of wine, Elodie on her arm, more food, “is Porthos.”

“Oh how romantic,” Porthos says, flopping back in the grass and taking d’Artagnan with him. Constance laughs and goes off to kiss people and cover everyone in glitter. “You alright, Charlie? With this?”

Porthos holds up his ring and lets d’Artagnan survey it, lets him think about it and the implications. Porthos knows how much d’Artagnan likes Athos, like him too but with him it’s purely emotional and joyful, with Athos there’s a fair bit of wanting a traditional-ish relationship. With Porthos he just wants to snuggle and be allowed to kiss his cheeks and embrace him and be emotionally close, which is good with Porthos because that’s mostly all he wants from his partners. With Athos, though, Porthos knows that d’Artagnan was hoping for something different, more structured.

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan says, curling up against Porthos again. “I can’t say it’s a shock, or that … well, I guess it might have been a fantasy of mine at some point. I let it go, though.”

“Ok,” Porthos says.

“We’ll work something out, me and him. For now, I’m really happy, yeah?” d’Artagnan says. “Really really happy with you.”

“And Constance,” Porthos teases, enjoying the flush over d’Artagnan’s cheeks. “Was the sex this morning excellent?”

d’Artagnan wriggles away and scurries off, lobbing his socks at Porthos in retaliation, and Athos comes to take his place. He stretches out beside Porthos and takes his hand, comparing their rings, then shuts his eyes and lets out a deep breath. Porthos lets out a deep breath, too, and lets himself enjoy this.