Work Text:
He knew he would be there like always, a polite smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye, maybe busying himself, maybe waving, but Daffy’s heart still jolted with excitement when he saw Porky waiting backstage, a stack of papers in one hand and a mug in the other. He was looking straight at Daffy with the same welcoming grin he flashed every morning. “Eh-geh-geh-good morning! Ready for today?”
Daffy jogged up to Porky’s side, jumping on top of the prop table that was nestled backstage, various papers, props, and costumes strewn about. “Mornin’, butterball!” Daffy gave a playful salute. “Ready as ever!” He didn’t need to look inside Porky’s mug to know that he was drinking chamomile tea, the usual, a half spoonful of sugar. Porky wasn’t a coffee person, he had always said. Made him too jittery and did little to calm the nerves. Daffy wasn’t a coffee person himself—mainly because he didn’t need a drink to supply him with boundless energy. He always found Porky’s daily cup of chamomile tea to be endearing, as well as everything else about him.
Porky flashed a warm smile at Daffy before flipping through his script. Daffy poked his head over Porky’s shoulder, leaning over as he balanced himself on the prop table. Admittedly, he hadn’t looked at the script for today’s session. Not because he didn’t worry about his career, but rather the opposite. He just… didn’t need it. He’d skim it once or twice and go from there, ad-libbing his lines and thinking on the fly. Mulling over the lines too hard caused Daffy to get stuck: he’d stumble over his lines, forget cues, get a rare pang of stage fright. To skim over the gist of the plot and the actions and go from there worked best, for him and Porky.
What a pal, Porky. Kindest fella you’d ever meet. Even though Porky had acting seniority over Daffy, being the studio’s first star, you’d never assume it from his sweet, modest disposition. He kept to himself and put the needs of others before him, always offering words of encouragement and praise to his colleagues. If you needed him to get you out of a burning building or just change a lightbulb at 3 in the morning, he’d be there in 5 minutes.
Daffy liked Porky. A lot. Being the studio’s first duo would do that to a relationship. He treasured their dinners out after shooting, the idle chit-chat they shared in the dressing room or backstage between scenes, and the rare occasions they would call each other from home after a hard day’s work. Porky would always pick up on the first ring, and Daffy nearly felt remorseful, as if Porky felt obligated to pick up the phone, but Porky always told him he valued Daffy’s company, and that it made him feel less lonely. Daffy supposed the same applied to him, too.
Lately, Daffy’s appreciation for Porky had grown considerably. He wasn’t sure why. Just seeing the porcine, with his rosy cheeks and his jovial disposition, his twinkling eyes—Daffy’s heart skipped a beat every time he saw him. Sometimes, his face would heat up whenever Porky would talk. He even fumbled with his words. Daffy, the ever talkative, extroverted Daffy, both on and off set, fumbling with his words. Porky was the only person who put Daffy in his place subconsciously. Porky was the only person who actually made Daffy feel shy.
Nah, it was probably just the signs of an oncoming cold. Flu season was around the corner. Nothing to be worried about.
There was a comfortable silence between the two as Porky flipped through the pages, Daffy skimming the words on the script behind his shoulder. Porky fires gun, Daffy makes an exit, Daffy heckles Porky, Daffy—
“Hey,” Daffy interjected suddenly, jabbing a finger towards a line in the middle of the page. Porky looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “What does that say?”
Porky read the line in the same tone one would use reading an official government document. “Daffy kisses peh-peh-Porky on the forehead. Why?”
That’s what he thought it said.
Daffy gulped, a rare wave of anxiety crashing over him. If anything, he was more anxious about being anxious. They did the kissing shtick dozens of times for dozens of films with no trouble at all. So why was it that Daffy felt he wanted more? It’s not like they were doing a romantic kiss. That would never happen… or could it? The possibility churned like curdled butter in Daffy’s stomach.
For once, Daffy didn’t say anything. He found it impossible to meet Porky’s good natured, inquisitive stare. Thankfully, Porky changed the subject. “Eh-di-di-didn’t you read the script?”
“Skimmed it,” Daffy responded, puffing out his chest in an attempt to put on a false bravado. He hoped he didn’t sound as terrified and worthless as he felt. “I try not to read too deep into it. Stumble up on my words if I think too hard, ya know?
“I-I-I don’t know how you do it, Daffy,” Porky told him, scratching his head. He had an earnest smile on his face as he turned to properly meet Daffy’s gaze. “Shucks. Yo-yo-you always find a weh-way to impre-im-impr—you inspire me.”
If Daffy felt sick before, he certainly felt he was going to lose his insides now. Porky was too kind to a hack like him. To think that he could serve as some sort of inspiration for his pal, his pal who was the studio’s first star, who had seniority, a proper name behind him… it felt almost sick and twisted. Porky deserved better. Yet, on the contrary, a part of Daffy jumped for joy within him. He inspired Porky! Maybe there was hope for the two after a—
Daffy shook his head. No, no. He was just setting himself up for failure. Being an inspiration wasn’t the same as a love interest. What kind of fool would conflate the two? Leave it to him to be such a dunce.
Nevertheless, Daffy returned an unsteady grin, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s nothin’, really.”
Saved by the bell as the blaringly loud roll call bell signaled the start of filming. Daffy would have melted if he spent another second lost in Porky’s warm, sincere gaze. Porky gave a small chuckle. “Well, there’s th-the-the bell. I’ll see you on set. Yo-you’re gonna do gr-gr-gre-g—you’ve got this in the bag.” It took everything in Daffy not to flinch as Porky gently placed his hand on Daffy’s spindly shoulder by means of encouragement. Porky tipped his chin down slightly, peering up at Daffy with a wide, sincere, almost shy grin.
Daffy watched as his best friend walked out of the wings and onto the stage, chatting up one of the directors, his dialogue incomprehensible.
“You too.”
---
“ACTION!”
The crack of the clapperboard snapped through the studio. Polite smiles between the two were now in the past as Porky and Daffy glared at each other with false anger. A rifle was shoved right in front of Daffy’s beak, threatening to blast him into smithereens—it fired blanks, of course, but only the actors and the crew knew that. Porky had his finger on the trigger as he threw on a grimace. “Your goose is cooked, duck!”
“Oh yeah?” Daffy snarled, putting on his best tough guy voice. Like a flash, Daffy grabbed the barrel of the rifle with his hand and shoved it so the front aimed at the ground. He shoved his face directly in Porky’s, feeling the faux-anger pierce through him. Porky was a startlingly convincing actor. “We’ll see about that, bub!”
Like the script said, Daffy grabbed the sides of the brown hunting cap Porky donned on his head and pulled it down, covering the porcine’s face. Muffled curses and incomprehensible exclamations mixed with Daffy’s shrill “HOOHOO!”s of laughter as Daffy hit Porky over the head with his own rifle, bounding away across the set.
Daffy zigzagged through cardboard tree standees, doing cartwheels and continuing his shrill, guttural laughter, but it wasn’t as strong as other performances. He only hoped it wasn’t as noticeable outside as it was externally. It couldn’t be helped—the other half of his stomach was taken hostage by butterflies. Each second was a second closer to the kiss scene.
Why was he so nervous? It would be a second. He’d done it a million times before. Why is this any different? Daffy knew this was abnormal behavior. Porky was the only person who actually made Daffy feel shy.
He wanted it to stop. As he zigzagged through various standees of rocks, trees, grass, etc., carefully weaving in and out of the artificial obstacles as Porky chased behind him blindly, fumbling with his hat and rifle, he felt sicker and sicker. He’d never felt this way about anyone before, except maybe himself. Maybe this illness was self loathing, not love sickness.
Regardless, he wanted it to stop.
So it would.
With a gulp, Daffy snaked back from whence he came, popping up behind Porky’s shoulder, who was still tripping over himself, fussing with the hunter’s cap lodged over his chubby face.
Just as suddenly as he had pulled the cap over the pig’s face did Daffy tear it off, freeing Porky from his fabric confines. Daffy placed the cap back on Porky’s head, who was heaving heavy breaths—half from “anger”, half from near suffocation. Daffy gave a toothy grin. “Looking’ for something, fat stuff?”
A beat as Daffy hesitated. Porky stared directly at him, bracing for impact expectantly. Daffy’s grin flickered, fading to a grimace, his eyebrows knitting together as his thoughts screamed in an incomprehensible blur. The staged anger on Porky’s face also faded, now replaced with a slightly concerned frown. He wasn’t acting.
Neither was Daffy as he grabbed Porky’s cheeks with both hands and planted a long, hard kiss on the lips.
Daffy squeezed his eyes shut, half to brace the impact, half so he could save himself from the embarrassment. He allowed his eyes to flutter open for just a moment, and sure enough, he could see eyes the size of dinner plates staring right back at him. Porky didn’t move away—instead he was like a deer in headlights. Daffy was, too, as he kept his lips locked, unable to pry himself back. Not because he wanted the moment to last, or, well, maybe he did, he didn’t know, but he truly felt paralyzed.
All Daffy could hear was the hum of the lights overhead in the studio. Everyone watching in the audience, directors, writers, you name it, everyone shared a unanimous silence. Porky was silent. Daffy was silent, externally. Internally he rushed with an incomprehensible cacophony. He couldn’t make out a single, coherent thought. It was all white noise. The energy coursing through his veins was deadly—he felt unstoppable, like he could lift a school bus over his shoulders with ease. All thoughts of trepidation and hesitation were absent.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Daffy squeezed his eyes shut once more, pulling Porky in closer before pushing him away. A grin slithered on Daffy’s face subconsciously as he batted his eyelashes coyly. “Tootles!” He crooned, jumping backwards into the air so he could still get a good look at Porky’s face.
Porky was still frozen, his eyes wider than ever, mouth slightly agape. His rosy cheeks were more saturated than usual. He just stood there, the rifle limp in his grip. After a beat, Porky blinked once, twice, shaking his head. In an instant, he was back to his old movie star self, pointing the rifle at Daffy, an angry grimace sprawled on his face. “I’ll fix you, you cr-c-cra—screwy duck!” Daffy never felt more elated to hear the all too familiar crack of a gunshot. He couldn’t stop smiling.
The two continued their charade throughout filming, maintaining their personas… mostly. Porky showed no signs of breaking character, but Daffy was sure the extra cheesy grin permanently plastered on his face raised suspicion. So be it.
As always, Porky was deemed the “winner” of the cartoon. Daffy had no gripes with that, especially now. Let the fellow win. Give him his well deserved credit. Daffy didn’t mind being dragged away off set by the neck, covered in soot, smoke, and debris from the warfare that broke out between the two. He didn’t care at all. There was nothing to care about. Daffy felt elated.
Thankfully, the cartoon was well received, at least by the director and co. Daffy got additional praises for how convincing his energy was, especially during the second half of the short. No remarks on how he had hesitated before the kiss. No remarks on the kiss in general. Daffy was almost disappointed, but he supposed it was for the better. He had fun making up little lies in his head to boast as an excuse. Yeah, well, I thought ol’ porkchop here deserved some worthy competition. He’s above the forehead kisses. It’s time to really test the ol’ ability! Or, It was nothin’, really. Just wanted to spice things up! Give ‘em the ol’ razzle dazzle. Daffy tuned out the director's commentary as he cast a warm grin at Porky, who returned a polite smile and a nod. Daffy’s heart soared.
Finally, they were dismissed for the day. Porky has vanished out of Daffy’s sight, presumably backstage, packing up for the evening. Changing out of his hunting garb and into his regular blazer and bow tie, sometimes a fedora, sometimes not. Sure enough, as Daffy poked his head backstage, Porky was just folding his hunting outfit in a neat pile, placing it on a hanger outside the dressing room door.
“Hey, great job, pal,” Daffy congratulated him, clapping Porky on the shoulder. “You handled it like a champ. You’re a good sport, you know that? They’re gonna love ya, just love ya.”
Porky turned to face him, and Daffy’s heart dropped. He wasn’t smiling like he usually was. Yet he wasn’t necessarily frowning, either. His face was analytical, reserved. The gears were turning. Porky looked Daffy straight in the eye, scanning him up and down. Daffy opened his mouth, but words refused to crawl out.
It was a wordless moment as Porky placed one hand on Daffy’s shoulder, the other brushing the side of Daffy’s cheek. Daffy’s breath hitched as Porky pulled himself close, giving Daffy a full kiss on the lips.
A totally different sensation, receiving rather than giving. Daffy’s insides melted. All he could do was stare directly at Porky, who had his eyes closed. Surely the thunder of Daffy’s heart was audible, but Porky made no signs of noting it. Daffy was hyper aware of everything, the way his face burned, the way he flexed his fingers uncontrollably, fiddling with some invisible barrier. Instead, he slowly moved his hand, his arm the weight of lead as he latched onto Porky’s grip on his cheek. He held Porky’s hand close, allowing himself to settle in, but he couldn’t close his eyes. The shock was still too much.
All sense of time flew out the window. Daffy couldn’t tell whether Porky’s kiss was longer than Daffy’s, or shorter, or whatever. It just was. Daffy couldn’t concentrate on anything. His insides were turned to absolute mush, including his brain. He just stood there as Porky pulled away with the utmost delicacy and care, allowing his hand to linger on Daffy’s face for an extra second or two before fully detaching himself. His warm, buttery smile and half-lidded eyes only flamed Daffy’s insides more.
Neither of them spoke. Daffy couldn’t—his tongue felt like a giant ball of gauze. He just watched as Porky put on his fedora, giving his blazer a few sweeps and adjusting his bow tie. He flashed a smile at Daffy.
“I-I’m not as m-mm-much of a dope as yo-you think I am.”
“No,” Daffy exhaled breathlessly, a goofy grin cracking on his lips, “you are not.”