D. Chesterton's Best Friends Series, Episode 40: Charles/Erik

D. Chesterton's Best Friends Series, Episode 40: Charles/Erik

The massive receiver dish moved—almost imperceptibly at first, but for each millimeter the mountain of steel pivoted, it was as if the entire earth tilted, lurched, moved. The moment was ecstatic, life changing, and then over.

Nearly a mile away, on the manicured lawns of the Xavier mansion, Erik Lensherr slowly lowered his arms, tears streaming down his handsome face. The effort had been at once excruciatingly painful and exhilarating.

"You did it, Erik!" thrilled Charles. "I knew you could!"

"No, Charles," his friend replied. "We did it."

Charles laughed, and patted Erik's lower back fondly before pulling his hand away in mock disgust.

"Erik! You're drenched!"

Erik looked distastefully at the thin gray fabric of his training romper. It was indeed soaked through with sweat. "My apologies, Charles, but I did just move a thousand tons of metal with my mind. I doubt anyone in 500 miles will be watching satellite TV tonight, which we have here in the 60s."

Charles laughed again, and gripped Erik's shoulder. "Of course, I'm only teasing. I think that's enough for today. Come, you must simply be dying for a steam!"

Erik grinned back at Charles. "You have no idea!"

Reclining in the wet heat of the sauna, Charles and Erik could hardly make out the shape of each other through the steam, though they sat scarcely an arms length apart. The modesty imposed by the room’s atmosphere was hardly necessary—the young men were as close as sailors, bonded by battle and bunks. And, in any case, each wore a towel wrapped about his waste, with the separating folds exposing nothing less decent than a sliver of Charles’ muscular thigh.

“I’m so …” Charles began, and then trailed off into a sheepish mutter.

“Proud of me?” Finished Erik. “I don’t need telepathy to know what you’re thinking, Charles. I never have. The sentiment is appreciated, but hardly deserved.”

“Erik!” admonished Charles. “Did you not see what you accomplished today? You were marvelous!”

“Me? ‘Marvelous’? Charles, I was but an instrument, and a broken instrument at that. You did the work. You … you reached inside of me, and grasped the instrument. You made it work. I did nothing at all. I felt like I was dreaming.”

Charles’ deep blush, thankfully, was hidden by the steam. “It was a pleasure. I would do it a thousand times for you, Erik.”

Smiling, Erik reached out to squeeze his friend’s bare shoulder. In the thick haze of the steam, however, he clumsily missed Charles’ arm altogether, his hand ending up in the shorter man’s face, two fingers pushing inadvertently into a mouth in the midst of shaping another sentence.

Erik gasped in surprise, and then chuckled as he withdrew the fingers from Charles’ lips with a pop.

“Apologies. I can shift mountains, but I can’t seem to control my own hands. It’s been a long day.”

“It has,” agreed Charles. “And I’ve pushed you too hard. You must be exhausted.”

“Oh, I’m fine. But … well, I am exhausted as well.” Erik leaned forward with a groan.

“Here,” offered Charles, and slid down the damp bench next to his friend. Reaching across Erik’s broad back with one hand, he gripped the older man’s shoulders, squeezing the knotted muscles gently.

“Aaah,” sighed Erik, perceptibly relaxing under the kneading fingers. “Aaaaaah.”

The steam seemed to fill the room more completely, its warmth penetrating the two warrior poets totally. It became a chamber of utter relaxation and privacy.

And yet the cedar door of the sauna creaked as it was pushed tentatively open, startling Erik from his place of relaxation. “Wha? Hello?” He stammered.

Charles continued to press and squeeze the shoulders, his mind already having instinctively reached out and identified the newcomer. “It’s only a student, Erik. Come in, come in. There’s always room for one more, Mr. Potter.”

His anxiety at sharing the sauna with his professors already dissipating, Harry tucked his wand into the knotted waistband of his towel, and pushed his damp hair away from his scarred forehead. It had been a long and difficult day of training, and the steam room promised relaxation and stimulating conversation with his teachers.

“’Allo, professors!” he called, and stepped into the warm air.

The end?

Top/Potter, Harry/Gun

Heyo, all! This one has been stewing around in my head for a while. My real stews don’t turn out very well, if I’m being perfectly honest, but I have a good feeling about this one. If it were a real stew, it would be rich, tangy, and brown. (Brown isn’t particularly appetizing, I know, but it’s the appropriate color for stews.) Also, this slash/stew wouldn’t be poisonous. That might seem like a given to most of you, but, trust me, it’s not.

Anyway, a couple weeks ago I was sitting in my closet, watching a film from a then-little-known producer by the name of Jerry Bruckhimer. The movie was about a troubled and short young man with dark, tousled hair. This boy had rare and exceptional abilities, and was accepted into an exclusive school for other special children like him.

At the school, the lad made a sidekick out of an oafish bootlick, formed a curiously asexual relationship with a very clever girl, and found an enemy… and then a friend in a blue-eyed, blond haired classmate. And, of course, he ultimately excelled at the unusual academy.

I’m talking about Harry Potter, right?

No! But, see, that’s what I thought too! It turns out that I was high as a kite from a Freon leak (my neighbor’s vintage refrigerator vents right into my closet) and I had actually been watching Top Gun all night.

But the mix up got me thinking: if I could so easily get these two films confused… maybe they were really meant to be mixed up. Mashed up. Slashed up!

And so, without further ado, I give you…

Top Potter/Harry Gun

The men’s locker room at the Navy’s elite Fighter Weapons School. The room is empty, the showers temporarily dry and free from concealing clouds of steam.

The doors open, and a crowd of boisterous young men jostle and shove their way into the locker room. Many of the young men wear the FWS’s standard-issue sport jeans, the official volleyball wear of the school. For they have indeed been playing volleyball, in a much anticipated intermural match with Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The Hogwarts students have been graciously allowed to use the FSW’s locker room, and still flushed with the excitement and sportsmanship of the afternoon’s match, the cadets are happy to share their space.

The Hogwarts students have lost the game. It was a close game, close enough that they very well could have won if luck had gone their way, but the defeat is a stinging one nonetheless. Hogwarts boys are used to getting what they want, and these boys wanted to win. They shuffle into the locker room, their shoulders slumped in their sleeveless sport robes. The last two to come in are the captain and co-captain of the team, and they can’t help but feel responsible for the team’s loss. They are, naturally, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. (Respectively. Ron knows the only reason he is co-captain is because of his famous and athletic friend.)

Ron: Mother-fu…

Harry: Ron! You’re a co-captain! Act like it for once.

Ron: Ah, sorry, mate. I just… I just…

Harry: I know. It’s the worst. But without the losses, the victories would mean nothing.

Ron sighs.

Ron: If you say so, mate.

Ron slouches onto a bench and bends down to struggle with his shoes. He has never gotten the hang of laces. He stays at it for several seconds.

Ron: Ah, Harry, mate…

Harry looks down to see the tangle Ron has made of his laces.

Harry: No problem, Ronno.

Harry crouches next to Ron, and concentrates on the knotted laces. He’s amazed that Ron could have created such a mess with only two strings and no magic. His prescription goggles have become fogged in the warming locker room, and he pulls them from his eyes.

Ron: They make you look like Scotty Pippin.

Harry: What?

Ron: Your goggles. They make you look like Scotty Pippin. It’s a good look on you.

Harry: Thanks, mate, but I know what they make me look like: a git.

Ron: No! Harry, I’d never…

Harry: Don’t worry about it. I know.

Harry stands up and gives Ron’s bare shoulder a firm squeeze.

Harry: There you go. Laces sorted out. Why don’t you hit the showers? The next game will be better. I know it.

Ron: Yeah. We’ll beat these retards yet!

Harry: I wish you wouldn’t use that word. But… (Harry grins) Yeah, we will.

Ron ambles off towards the showers, his mood already lifting. Harry wishes he could be so carefree. He stretches, and scratches his temple with his wand.

A voice comes from behind him: Nice moves out there, Potter.

Harry whirls around, his wand at the ready, prepared to face the shriveling sarcasm of the Malfoy. But it’s not Malfoy that stands in front of him.

Harry: Who…?

But then he places the young man in his memory. He is Maverick, the captain of the FWS team. The boy, in many respects, looks like a stockier, more muscular version of Harry. Harry sees so much of himself in the other captain’s eyes, he half expects to see a vivid, zigzag scar on his forehead. But his brow is smooth and unmarked. A mischievous grin crawls across his mouth and creases his eyes.

Harry relaxes, and sits on the bench to untie his own shoes.

Harry: Er… Maverick. Thanks. But not quite nice enough, I guess, huh?

Maverick thrusts a jean-clad leg up on the bench, and rests an elbow on his knee.

Maverick: Ha ha! Nah. Just bad luck. Plus, the Iceman was in rare form today.

Harry: “The Iceman”?

Maverick: The cool customer with the highlights in his hair and the chip on his shoulder.

Harry: Ha. Practice that one?

Maverick’s grin widens.

Maverick: You know it. Maverick’s a real asshole, but he sure can play ball.

Harry: Yeah… I’ve got one a lot like that.

Maverick: The ginger?

Harry: Ron? No, Ron’s a puppy dog. Well, a puppy dog who can’t be trusted with matches, but you see what I’m saying. I’m talking about Malfoy.

Maverick: The golden snake with the killer spike?

Harry: That’s the one. “Golden snake”—that about sums it up, I suppose. Malfoy… sometimes I just want to break his little neck. And sometimes…

Maverick: Yeah. But that’s captainship for you. It’s not what people think it is.

Harry: No, it’s not. It’s… stressful.

Maverick: You said it. It just builds up, right up here.

Maverick places his thick hands on Harry’s shoulders. Maverick is right. The muscles in his shoulders are tense, and as knotted as Weasley’s pathetic shoes.

Harry: Yeah, right up there.

Maverick squeezes Harry’s shoulders, kneading the tight muscles.

Maverick: You just have to let the game in, you know? The action, the movement… Let the game lead you, and you’ll lead your boys just fine.

Harry: Yeah, I forget that sometimes. Say, I don’t suppose you’ve ever played quidditch…

Ron calls excitedly from the other side of the locker room: Harry! Mate, they have some sort of tub full of hot water, like a… a… a hot-tub. You can get in it!

Harry reaches back to give Maverick a pat on the bicep.

Harry: I better go check on him. Last time he went in the lake by himself, he almost drowned. From eating mud.

Maverick gives Harry’s shoulders one last squeeze, tight and strong.

Maverick: Ha. You should have seen Goose. Until next time, Potter.

Harry: Yeah. Until next time. Oh, and Maverick?

Maverick: Yeah?

Harry, with a wink: Watch your back at the next match. I’ll be gunning for you, bud.

Maverick: Ha ha! I don’t doubt it!

Maverick flashes a grin, and gives Harry the thumbs-up. The curtain falls.

Harry slash Draco slash Fun

That Star Trek movie got me all worked up over the creative potential of slash fiction, and the Harry Potter review put some ideas in my head. So I worked up this little piece for y'all. Just what is the relationship between Harry and Draco? There's more there than plain hate... Let's take a look at a scene not in any of the movies (yet!)

__________


Harry and Ron sit in the history of magic classroom. Harry is hunched over a desk, but Ron is clearly ready to leave. Class has long since ended, and Harry is struggling with a particularly tedious essay.

Ron: C’mon, mate. Hermione can help you out with that later. Let’s go play wizard baseball!

Harry: Sorry, Ron, but I want to do this myself. Hermione said she thought I was functionally retarded.

Ron: That minge! I’ll never understand girls.

Harry: You and me both. Don’t worry. I’ll catch up with you later.

Ron: All right then.

Ron starts to leave.

Harry: Hey! Ron… What’s “wizard baseball.”

Ron: Wizard baseball? Oh, Harry. It’s like muggle baseball, but with magic. I can’t explain it.

Harry and Ron chuckle and Ron’s oafishness. They both know which of them is functionally retarded. Ron leaves, and Harry turns back to his scroll.

Harry: Oh, what good is magic if it can’t write an essay on the gnome renaissance for me?

Harry sighs. He is frustrated and tense. He runs a hand through his dark, tousled hair. His fingers linger on his famous lightning-bolt scar, as his hand moves across his forehead. The scar is tingling.

Harry: Hmm.

A door opens silently in the back of the classroom. Although the entering figure is initially obscured by darkness, the white-blonde hair moving through the shadows like the rising moon reveal the intruder to be Draco Malfoy. Draco pads stealthily behind Harry, and places his long, pale fingers on Harry’s shoulders. He rubs the shoulders gently through the thin, regulation school robes.

Harry, unaware of just who the newcomer is: What happened to wizard baseball?

Draco composes his fine features into a careful sneer, and squeezes harder with his hands, rubbing the shoulders almost roughly.

Draco: Oh, I don’t know. It turned out that wizard baseball is a game for wizards too poor and stupid to appreciate the finer wizard sports.

Harry Potter nearly falls out of his desk in surprise. This would have saved him time, as he erupts from his seat, whirling theatrically to face Draco. His scar tingles like crazy.

Harry, sarcastically: And what sports can the “betters” of the wizarding world appreciate?

Draco: Muggle baiting, centaur riding. Goblin races. Nothing you’d know about, with a family like yours.

Harry: Better than a family that licks the boots of the Dark Lor… “Goblin races”?

Draco: Did I stutter, Potter? Do you speak English? Yes, goblin races. We unshackle some of the goblins for an afternoon, and watch as they chase each other across the gardens.

Harry: That sounds like the sort of thing you’d like.

Draco, sneering: Oh, it is. Maybe you’d enjoy it too, Potter, if you could step down from your pedestal.

Harry, his voice dripping with sarcasm: Maybe I would.

Draco takes a step towards Harry.

Draco: Perhaps you should come sometime. There’ll be free food there too, so maybe you should bring your friend, Weasley.

Harry, stepping forward himself: I wouldn’t put Ron through that. And your food would only make him sick.

Draco: Excuses, excuses. Don’t use poor Weasley as a scapegoat.

Harry: I never said I wouldn’t come.

Draco, rolling his eyes slightly: Oh, really? I guess I’ll see you there, then.

Harry: I guess you will.

Draco: Wonderful. I’ll tell my father.

Harry: Do that.

Harry gathers up his things, his eyes never leaving Draco’s. A smirk lingers on Draco’s face as Harry walks by, towards the exit.

Harry, pausing: Draco, maybe you could participate in them sometime.

Draco’s smirk falls with suspicion: Participate in what?

Harry puts his hands on Draco’s shoulders, and squeezes them firmly.

Harry: The goblin race, of course. You’ve got the legs for it.

Draco’s jaws tense, and his face darkens with intense emotion.

Harry, kneading Draco’s thin shoulders: You just need to loosen up a little.

Harry’s hand slowly trails down the side of Draco’s robes as he walks away, a final declaration of confidence and contempt for his adversary.

Draco, softly: You’ll get what’s coming to you, Potter.

Harry, over his shoulder: I hope so.

To the Ends of the Earth… and Beyond!

So, I watched the new Star Trek film last night, at one of the many local second-run theaters. The tickets there are cheap, but that also means that there’s always a little more shouting at the screen than I generally like. Still, I decided that it was about time for another one of my famous movie reviews, so I braved the masses and went on a voyage among the stars.

(Really, I don’t mean to be so bitter about movie audiences. It’s just that the woman sitting next to me “accidentally” put her hand on my thigh several times. An invasion of personal space to begin with, I’m pretty sure she also had peanut butter on her fingers. Oh well. As the man said, “America, America, this is you!”)

Star Trek: The Power of Love is on the surface a delightful story about spaceships and guns, but it quickly becomes apparent to the more astute viewers (ahem) that Star Trek: The Power of Love is, first and foremost, a love story. A sweet, yet very… intense love story.

It helps to have a grounding in the basic tenants of “slash fiction,” to really appreciate the new film, I think. To be perfectly honest, I was unfamiliar with the term until last night. Or, at least, I had been laboring under a misconception regarding slash fiction. When I got home from the theater, thoroughly entertained though I was, I struggled to put into words some of the concepts rolling around my head, and so I turned to the Internet. A quick search of “Kirk/Spock love” returned some remarkable images, which, while somewhat more explicit than anything in the actual movie, certainly felt honest about the overarching theme: a deep and abiding love between two men on a spaceship.

Maybe a quick summary is in order. I’ll leave out most of the names, because I don’t remember them, and, for the most part, going through particular scenes isn’t necessarily illustrative of the theme of the piece as a whole, so I’ll try to be concise.

The story starts with two young men, separated by light years of space, but united in their passions. Daniel Spock is a half alien (or, another useful way to think of him, half man, half… something else), struggling with the strange and forbidden feelings inside of him. He hides his true self under ridiculous fashions and distracts his powerful intellect with word puzzles and math-based computer games. Jimmy Kirk, on the other hand, is all man, but he spends his days in a flurry of self-destructive stunt behavior, and his nights, as he puts it, “chest deep in alien pussy.” (“You’re not fooling anyone,” offers an avuncular rear admiral.) There is a void in each of the young men’s lives, and like so many before them they eventually are drawn to the mystery, adventure, and dark, confined spaces promised by… the Navy! Fate has thrown his gossamer lasso about their waists, and they are slowly drawn together from across the galaxy.

Fast forward. Kirk and Spock are finally serving together aboard a dry-docked spaceship, answering the admiral’s fan mail and giving tours to civilians, and… they hate each other! What?! How is this possible? I’ll tell you how. Or, more accurately, Spock himself tells us. Drawn across space and time by a bond of love, a svelte and gentlemanly older version of Spock travels from the future to set eyes on his old friend Kirk one final time. He resolves not to reveal his true identity to the younger man, but a night spent huddling for warmth in an icy cave is more than Old Spock can handle. Many secrets are revealed.

Enter the third angle in this love triangle: a jealous and spurned admirer of Spock’s follows him from the future, and resolves to destroy the fledgling relationship between the pointy-eared half man, and the barrel-chested man-boy. And then the adventure begins, each explosion and claxon alarm drawing the young sailors closer together.

See, apparently the “slash” in slash fiction is what isn’t between two titular characters when they hug. If you know what I mean. Like “Kirk/Spock,” “Harry/Draco,” or “Captain Jack Sparrow/Legolas.” It goes a long way toward explaining the powerful tension that always exists in these relationships. They don’t hate each other, they hate themselves and the relationship they can’t have. I’m not saying that this relationship is necessarily sexual. But it is usually sexual. And here we have the old “Sam ‘n Frodo” dynamic all over again, but instead of the tension surfacing through Frodo’s catty comments towards Sam, and Sam’s constant threats of hitting Frodo with a frying pan, it appears in Kirk’s bizarre habit of putting Spock in headlocks for minutes at a time and Spock’s attempts at humiliating Kirk in front of the crew by constantly posing logic problems straight out of the Mensa study book.

It’s thought provoking stuff, and I’m surprised that the audience was as receptive as it seemed to be. But I suppose it was only a matter of time before a studio picked up on this aspect of the Star Trek mythos and expanded upon it with some CGI and b-list stars. I’m all for it. It’s been on our minds for years, whether we acknowledged it or not. I mean, I think I’ve been writing Kirk slash Spock fan fiction for years without even realizing it. Take a look at an excerpt from one of my mini-screenplays. (I always try to write them as screenplays, just in case.)

Kirk sprawls in the captain’s chair on the bridge of the Enterprise, one leg hooked over an arm rest, his chin cupped in a free hand. He is thinking.

Spock approaches Kirk from behind and sets his hands on the Captain’s broad shoulders. Kirk doesn’t immediately acknowledge the first officer’s presence, but he closes his eyes with pleasure. Spock’s strong hands and Vulcan training make for good shoulder rubs. It’s not for nothing that he has earned the nickname “Roofie-hands” among the crew.

Kirk, finally: I just wish… What are they up to?

Spock, humoring the captain: What who is up to?

Kirk: Good God, man, the Romulans! What have they got planned for the summit?

Spock: There has been no indication that the Romulan delegation has any designs beyond the scheduled negotiations. Perhaps they truly wish for peace this time.

Kirk: They’re fucking Romulans, Spock! You know they’re up to something!

Spock: I do not know that. But, as always, I will trust to your… intuition.

Kirk sighs and straightens in the chair. Reluctantly, he leans out of Spock’s grip and stands.

Kirk: I just need to clear my head. I’m going planet-side.

Spock: Green-tits?

Kirk: How did you know?

Spock: I… have come to understand what you mean by “clear your head.” Green-tits is a resident of this planet. It was not a difficult deduction.

Kirk, looking for his keys and wallet as he prepares to leave: Why do you call her that?

Spock: Every visible piece of her anatomy is green. Am I wrong in assuming that the tits are the exception to the rule?

Kirk: … No.

Kirk abandons the search for his wallet (which lies under a carelessly placed newspaper on a control console) to move behind Spock, putting his own hands on the half-Vulcan’s shoulders.

Kirk: It’s just a little bit of alien tail. It doesn’t mean anything.

His thick fingers dig gently into Spock’s carefully pressed uniform.

Spock, shrugging the hands away: If you say so, sir.

Kirk, becoming frustrated: You know I hate it when you call me sir.

Spock is silent for a moment. Kirk spots his hidden wallet, and begins to leave. Spock speaks again. Emotion makes the slightest fracture in his controlled Vulcan baritone.

Spock: We should be out having adventures.

See what I mean? It’s pretty tame, but trope is there. It’s always there. It just took a director as courageous as JJ Abrams to take it out of the drawer and display it in a way we can all appreciate.