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Come mid-day of this strange new, awful, weird, slightly wonderful torture, Porthos has a second epiphany. The bachelor party is meant to be in a matter of two days and existing as he currently is, he is in no state whatsoever to endure it. That, and he's still a bit edgy about the fact that he's so different and this time there aren't people around to pick him up and cuddle him (...well, Aramis had picked him up, but for different reasons). It's why he's gone to see Allison, knocking on the door and leaning back against the wall clad in Aramis' baggy shirt and his skinniest pair of jeans (which still pool on both his waist and over his ankles).

Arms crossed over the chest (mainly to try and ignore that he's got one), Porthos waits for Allison, hoping to hell that she's willing to patiently put up with him and maybe lend him as many clothes as she possibly can.

(no subject)

It takes nearly three hours, Aramis' devoted attentions, promises, and other skills, but finally Porthos feels calm. He's had to borrow a few clothes from Allison, but now he's got a pair of jeans that fit decently. He's still not really fond of the notion of wearing a bra, even a sports one, so he's wearing one of Aramis' baggy shirts (or maybe it's Athos'? It's a blue thing from the bedroom is all he knows and it pools on him like mad) as he goes back for his third cup of coffee for the day while Aramis is out, calling and making some arrangements, as if to check to see whether they could postpone a day, if necessary.

Porthos really, really doesn't want to think about that, but he's not walking down any aisles in white wedding dresses, so it'd best be solved by then. Raising on his toes to reach into the cupboards that yesterday, saw no trouble at all for him. He grasps the bottle of brandy down and spikes his coffee with it, working an admirable buzz considering the hour of day.

Carrying both the brandy and the pot of coffee, Porthos returns to the table where he curls up in the chaise with his legs tucked under him, dragging Aramis' notebook of wedding details closer so he can review the menu one last time, even if it's probably not even the twentieth-to-last time.

[dated feb. 15]

It's really not like he's surprised, but the lack of balance when Porthos wakes up means he instantly knows something is wrong, wrong, wrong. He actually nearly falls off the bed, but manages to get the sheets before he can (and narrowly avoids grabbing Aramis' upper thigh in a place that won't be so sexy). He stares down at the clothes that positively pool on him and grabs for a robe to try and make it somewhat dignified.

He thinks about yoga for all of two seconds before Porthos abandons that idea, steadfastly avoiding mirrors, being naked, or looking down as he heads to the coffee maker to put on a fresh roast. Once he's got a cup of the strongest stuff he can find (splashed with a bit of alcohol), he curls up in the chaise, stubbornly trying to ignore how much smaller he seems.

One hand to his hair proves it to be the same length as ever, though maybe an inch longer. It's frizzy and still awaiting his curls. His earring is in the pierced hole, but he's shorter by a few inches (can't be more than 5'7, now) and while his shoulders are a touch broad, they're only broad in the sense that he's shrunk everywhere else and they've stayed somewhat firm.

God, at least he's got his memories in the proper place.

The only trouble now is knowing that he's supposed to be getting married in 5 and a half days. Aramis had been like this for a full week. He is very much not ready to change all their plans on a dime. Burying his nose in the coffee mug, Porthos tugs his knees closer to his chest, awaiting the impending storm.