(no subject)

[somepoorsoul]

The smell of brewing coffee draws Athos from bed earlier than he might have otherwise pulled himself away. He might not have been awake at all, save that sleep had come only fitfully the night before. The melancholy of his first few months in Darrow had lifted, but fears old and new still plague him from time to time, sending him to stare at his mother’s ring (he cannot think of it as his wife’s) or the pages of his wedding speech where line after line is cut through with pen, deemed unworthy. This morning, he drags himself out from under blankets as a capitulation to a wasted night more than an early welcome to the day, but at least he has one thing to look forward to.

Porthos makes excellent coffee.

When he descends the stairs, he wears not his usual clothes, but one of the sweaters that Porthos has purchased for him - another capitulation, this time to the chill in the air. Between that and his half-laced boots, he cuts a downright disheveled figure, at least by Athos standards. The lower apartment is quiet, and Athos finds the coffee swiftly enough, though as he takes it into the living room, he stills with the mug at his lips.

The room is already occupied.

Comments

[du_vallon]

Porthos has made a routine of this in the mornings. When he first wakes, Aramis is inevitably still asleep -- the man does like to relax -- and so Porthos puts on the coffee, full knowing that it will be at least another half hour before the man comes out from the bedroom. Once that's done, he begins his thirty minutes of yoga, knowing that by the end, Aramis will be awake and ready to fuss over him and mean to distract him.

That's why he thinks it's just Aramis when he hears the shuffling behind him. Smirking to himself, Porthos shifts into the warrior pose that Aramis always praises for what it does to his arse, keeping his back to the man as he arches his shoulderblades back in order to get a proper, decent arc and put on a bit of a show.

"What are you thinking for breakfast, chou? Pancakes? Maybe with some cinnamon?" he calls over his shoulder.

[somepoorsoul]

Athos slowly shifts his weight from one foot to the other, forcing himself to swallow back the still too-hot liquid that burns its way down his throat. It’s a welcome distraction from the sight in front of him that he cannot quite look away from.

When Porthos speaks, though, he flushes red and ducks his head away, relieved that the other man’s back is turned - well, sort of. “Morning,” he deadpans when the silence stretches too long.

[du_vallon]

"You're not Aramis," Porthos realizes in a rush, slipping out of the pose as if panicked. He doesn't lose his balance, but he pivots on his foot so that he's facing Athos (not that it does much given that his tank top gives equal show of his chest as his bike shorts give of his thighs). "Sorry, usually he wakes up around now and stars to pester me," he admits.

His eyes drop to the coffee in Athos' hands, so he snorts and slides into a tree pose. "Should've known you came for the coffee and not the exercise."

[somepoorsoul]

“This is yoga,” Athos realizes, expression settling into its more usual skeptical calm. For all the man’s talk of his mysterious stretches, he hadn’t learned much more about Porthos’ strange morning routine. He swallows, and now that he has looked away from the other man’s form, he does not dare look back. How he wishes for his uniform, which so often provides him a shield from his emotions. “…Interesting."

[du_vallon]

Porthos raises his brow and dares Athos to make other disparaging comments about the stretching, but he's busy standing in one spot and holding his muscles for full minutes. He keeps his shoulders back and stands perfectly straight, able to do this simple pose as long as he likes.

He grins, though, thinking that Athos deserves a morsel for coming so early. "This is yoga, yeah," he agrees and moves into a standing split, working his body into lithe, easy movements. Now upside down, he cranes his head to the side. "Aramis fainted doing this, you know. He thought I was visiting some woman, so he followed me into a class. Tried doing it in his full leathers and fainted, full on the spot."

[somepoorsoul]

The image is enough to bring a brief grin to Athos’ lips. He chances a look at Porthos, and his flush returns full force (by God, he is turning into a callow youth), and he turns back to the kitchen as though he needed to refill his coffee, though his mug is still full. “I hope he did not swear you to secrecy,” he deadpans, “for I intend to use this tale against him."

[du_vallon]

Porthos shifts a little further so he can wrap his hands around his ankle and move his other leg into a completely straight line, pointing his toes to the ceiling as the stretch burns through all of his muscles. "Since when have I ever looked past a chance to embarrass Aramis?" he wonders with a devious smirk. "At least, with you. Maybe don't tell d'Artagnan, but yeah, he overheated. This was before he and I were together or anything. Had to carry him home and dump him in cold water."

"Like I told him, normally that's you I'm doing it to," he points out, swinging his leg back down and switching to stretch out the other side of his body in the same pose.

[somepoorsoul]

Athos snorts, but otherwise does not dignify Porthos’ words with an answer. He spends as much time as he can get away with in the kitchen, tipping a little more from the pot into his cup, adding more milk, and too much sugar.

“How long do you keep at this?” he asks before he can return.

[du_vallon]

"Half an hour," Porthos replies, the blood rushing to his head before he slowly eases his way back to a standing position. He's been at it for twenty minutes, so he has another ten minutes to go. With Athos here and someone he trusts not to jump him, he settles on the ground and beckons him over.

"Actually, if you're willing to put your coffee down, I could use your help," he admits, wanting to do a forward fold, but needing someone to help pull his back for the stretch.

[somepoorsoul]

Warily, Athos remerges from the kitchen, his face a carefully controlled mask of skepticism. “With what?"

[du_vallon]

Porthos beckons him with a wave of his hand, legs spread wide. "Come sit across from me, put your feet to mine and you're gonna pull my hands while I stretch out my back," he says as he sits up straight. "Need the help otherwise its not nearly as satisfying."

[somepoorsoul]

“Is Aramis still abed?” Athos sighs, but he sets down his coffee (at this rate, he fears he will never have the opportunity to drink it) and ventures into the living room to stand before Porthos, looking down upon him. “I sit here?"

[du_vallon]

Porthos snorts derisively as he shoots Athos a dubious look. "Aramis is always asleep until right before I finish, at which point he mysteriously awakens to pester me. That's why he's not allowed to help," he confides, nodding as he gestures to a space six feet from him. "I trust you. I don't trust him not to turn this into an excuse to disrupt my routine." He wiggles his bare toes. "Press the palms of your feet to mine. You're gonna need it for leverage."

[somepoorsoul]

Eyes still narrowed with suspicion, Athos sinks to the floor, and after a thoughtful pause, tugging his boots off. As a soldier to the very marrow of his bones, he has awoken on his share of mornings with creaking muscles that will not obey until they have been stretched a bit, but Porthos has turned such a simple matter into something like worship. Dubious, he presses his socked feet to Porthos’ bare ones. “Very well."

[du_vallon]

With only their feet touching, Porthos doesn't feel himself moved to the sort of arousal he'd felt at the Kagura or so many of the other times thinking of Athos. The man had made it very clear that he doesn't want them in that manner and Porthos means to be the respectable sort of friend who obeys that. He reaches both his hands out. "Take my wrists and pull. I'm gonna press my chest to the floor and stretch out my back and shoulders," he explains, already aching to feel the pull.

"Don't be fussy," he warns. "Pull as hard as you can," he says, bearing his wrists pressed together to Athos.

[somepoorsoul]

Athos grasps Porthos’ wrists, but before he can do anything, catches the other’s man’s eye and stills, uncertainty flicking across his features. It isn’t even the way they are seated, or Porthos’ lack of clothing that makes the moment suddenly so intimate, but instead something about the trust Athos finds in Porthos’ expectant look.

Blinking a few times to dismiss the shiver that travels up his spine, he does as he’s told.

[du_vallon]

Porthos sees a flicker of it before he presses his nose to the carpet, swallowing hard and being grateful that he doesn't have to let Athos see what that exposes (hope and so much fear and more hope beyond that). He's been doing yoga for more than six months now, which means he's greatly lithe and flexible despite his size. It means when Athos is pulling, he's able to push his hips into the ground and line up his chest as he nudges his shoulderblades together and gives Athos all the power to pull and extend his spine.

When he finally feels the burn ebb away and turn into zen, he lets his fingers slip from Athos' grip to blissfully sit up, tugging his knees to his chest as he smiles with a daze. "That was perfect," he praises.

[somepoorsoul]

His own shoulders relaxing a bit with the effort and release, Athos shrugs and offers a faint flicker of a smile, drawing his knees together and resting his elbows against them. “So this is what you do every morning,” he murmurs, half to himself. He’s more curious than he expected to be, and more intrigued. He would not have assumed that something so careful and controlled would have become part of Porthos’ routine.

[du_vallon]

"This or some variation, yeah," Porthos agrees, reaching back for his book of poses that he holds up for Athos to see. "Usually, I flip through and find a few I like and run through them. Couldn't do half of them until a few months in, though. It's great for stress release," he praises.

Peering up past the pages, Porthos wonders if maybe with Aramis asleep, this is an opportunity he's been looking for. "Can I ask you something?"

[somepoorsoul]

“Mm.” Athos takes the book and flips through it idly in the silence, looking up when Porthos speaks again. He looks terribly serious all of a sudden. “Of course."

[du_vallon]

"When you told Aramis and I about your wife," he starts, knees still tucked in against his chest, fingers drumming his knees. "You mentioned that she was a thief." He gives Athos a searching look, refusing to look away in case he misses a reaction. "Is that part of why you hated her?"

[somepoorsoul]

Athos lifts a puzzled brow in silence, searching in Porthos’ face for the real question behind this one. It does not take him long to find, for Porthos has never hidden his feelings with any ease. His expression softens, and though his first instinct is to rise to his feet and busy himself somehow, he thinks there might be some things his friend needs to hear face-to-face.

“Porthos. You are nothing like her. Do you hear me?"

[du_vallon]

The look that Porthos gives Athos is laden with heavy meaning. "Except you're wrong," he points out. "You said she's a thief, liar, and a murderer. By my count, I've been all of those things," he says, knowing that they've all murdered, but the previous two are the parts where he really hits hard on all three of them. "I asked you if you hated her because of it." He needs to know if there are parts of himself that Athos finds distasteful.

[somepoorsoul]

Athos tightens his jaw, the strength and tension back in the way he holds himself, though he stays upon the floor before Porthos. “You have never lied to me about who you are. She manipulated her way into my marriage bed, pretending to be someone she could never be, and when that did not suit her purposes well enough, she killed my brother in cold blood.” Though he tries to hold Porthos’ gaze, by the end he cannot help but look away.

Had he once seen her thieving as just another dark mark against her character? Yes, in his rash youth, her every crime had contributed to her greatest one of all. Athos sees the world in more varied shades of grey now, and knows that there are those who merely commit crimes because they must, and those whose hearts are too rotten to be saved. “I do not hate her because of some petty thievery she may have once committed."

[du_vallon]

"You and Aramis both need to understand that I wasn't just a petty thief," Porthos says heavily, though there's no pride in it. Both of them seem so ready to dismiss what he'd done as light trinkets stolen or a few coins here and there. He didn't earn his reputation as the best thief in the Court with small bits.

He'd taken enough to potentially ruin lives, to hurt people and families, and often had taken from France itself to better his own life. He will always feel shame and regret it, but he'd done it. "I'm glad you don't hate me for it, but don't act as if I was honourable back then, Athos," he warns. "Not if you want to think me not a liar, as well."