somepoorsoul | (no subject)

(no subject)

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.

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"One, yeah," Porthos confirms from where he's still on the ground, stretching his arms above his head, though still flat on the floor as he pushes his hips up a touch higher, drumming his fingers and nodding to the book. "The one on page twenty-four, except he was just pulling at me," he murmurs.

“Morning,” Athos answers from the kitchen, pouring himself a new cup of coffee, and another for Aramis. Passing Porthos, he offers the mug to their newly roused friend with a twitch of a smile. “Don’t look so surprised to see me."

He accepts the coffee gratefully, feeling restored just for the smell of it. "I'd have been more surprised to have caught you bent into one of those evil shapes," Aramis admits, "And am sorry for having missed your assist."

He drifts closer to Porthos, unable to do anything but when he's got half himself pushed into the air like that, and smiles down at him. "You can terrorize him from now on with threats of mutual practice."

Porthos collapses back on the ground, peering up at Aramis from where he's staring at him like this, upside down, with a stupid fond grin. "But you hate it more," he counters, sitting up and plucking the skin-tight shorts from off his thighs as he adjusts his tank top and heads to make himself a cup of coffee, too. "It's much more fun wondering if you're bound to faint again."

"I told him," he informs Aramis sweetly. "And I'll never give up on the idea of you helping me. Especially with the one on page sixty three," he says with a smirk and a wink.

“He did tell me,” Athos echoes, rolling his eyes as they begin to make those looks at each other. Once, their flirting had made him uncomfortable, though that had melted soon enough into good-natured exasperation. Now, he has to turn away as carefully as he can to hide the new uncertainty on his face.

Athos makes for the sofa. “I would not have expected you to be bested by stretches, Aramis."

"I see you have given a summation of events sorely lacking in detail," Aramis tells Porthos darkly, leaving him to take possession of the armchair. He pulls down both blankets draped over the back of it, not speaking again until he has formed a cocoon.

"It was Bikram class," he tells Athos. "Hotter than a summer's day at noon, with air so wet you could swim in it. Better men than I have fainted under such conditions."

And if none did that day save him, not even the slim shouldered women, Aramis does not mention it. "I was not dressed for the occasion."

Porthos fills his coffee with thick cream before he wanders over to Aramis' side, perching on the arm of the chair as he leans down to steal a kiss from him and tugging away at the blankets he's swathed himself with. "Aramis doesn't like me going back for those classes," he explains to Athos, still fussing with the blankets.

"Funny, I've offered to do them here and I get that little glare of his," he says, but leans sideways for another soothing little kiss to his cheek.

“Sounds like excuses,” Athos drawls with a smirk. Both his hands wrapped snugly around hid mug, he slowly drinks down the warming coffee, finally beginning to feel human again after the haze of the morning. His gaze flickers to Aramis and Porthos - warm, and content, and barely clothed - and then away again, back down into his mug. They will always be a temptation at the edge of his vision, but one of his certain he can resist, for the sake of their friendship.

“Any plans for today?"

Aramis resettles the blankets around his shoulders, even as he accepts the kisses, a faint smile on his lips for all that he attempts to keep his frown. "You could not make our home so hot," he says, "The feathers on my hat would wilt for good."

Unearthing his coffee cup, he takes a sip, eyeing the still falling snow through the window. It seems as if it will never stop, but perhaps that's simply how Darrow is in winter. "Not until they've used their monstrous plows," he answers. "And we've not had a client since the storm moved in." He lifts his brows hopefully at Porthos. "Perhaps a hunt?"

"Nah, I probably couldn't make the room so hot," he agrees, settling with his coffee and sipping at it while he keeps one hand circling Aramis' back idly. "Maybe a hunt, yeah," he agrees, wondering if the snow would have made the vampires a little more settled in their ways. "Also, before the sun goes down, you need to come try wedding cakes with me."

The snowed-over roads have made Athos restless as well - perhaps that is the source of his unsettled night - and the thought of a hunt pleases him. He nods in agreement, swallowing down the last of his coffee, and wishing, a bit, that he had added a touch of brandy. “You are expected to taste cakes?" Every time he turned round, this wedding became more elaborate.

"To know what sort we want," answers Aramis. Or rather, what sort Porthos wants, as Aramis has long since learned to defer to his judgment. "Like the meal at Kagura."

It will be an odd day, tasting cakes and glimpsing future happiness, followed by excitement and gore, but Aramis still finds he needs to fight something after that morning in the snow. Something that deserves his wrath will do nicely.

"I'm leaning towards this raspberry champagne one that's light as anything," Porthos praises with a dreamy smile on his face. "You could come with us," he offers to Athos. " Promise, there won't be any mistletoe and the most we'll ask you to do is eat some cake." Obviously Athos will come on the hunt; he doesn't think that's up for discussion. "Only a quick hunt," he says sternly. "We're not going out there do long you might freeze."

Athos must carefully school his features into a neutral expression while he prays he does not flush at the mention of mistletoe. “Go without me,” he insists. “I can’t imagine that I’d have much to contribute. I will be ready for the hunt when you return."

"I'll hardly freeze," Aramis returns, so long as the snow plows keep to their sides of the roads. He turns his attention to Athos. "Turning down cake," he tuts, watching as Athos' flush restrains itself in staining only the tips of his ears. "One might accuse you of melancholy."

Porthos gives Aramis a stern look, unable to help himself given how badly the other day had gone. "We're still not going out for very long," he insists, hoping he sounds sensible and not firmly demanding. He's just worried is all, and he doesn't want to have to see Aramis suffer in the cold again.

"It's because I didn't offer alcohol too, isn't it?" he remarks, of Athos' denial. "What if I told you we'd buy some ales, too?"

“Me? I am the very picture of good cheer.” Athos hasn’t missed the exchange about the weather; though Porthos and Aramis have developed the annoying habit of fretting over each other like children from time to time, this seems a bit much, even for them, and he briefly cocks a brow at Porthos before returning to the matter of cake. “I really don’t see why you need my help in this particular endeavor."

"Yes, Athos," says Aramis patiently, "But cake." Satisfied with his argument, he unfurls himself from the blankets, stretching once before he wraps them around Porthos' shoulders.

"I'm having a wash before we set out. Convince him to eat cake."

Porthos peers up dutifully at Aramis and kisses his palm before sending him off to wash, turning his entire attention on Athos now as he leans forward. "You realize I'm not letting you out of this. I get stuffed around five or six pieces and Aramis even less. You can help by continuing on for us. Besides, it'll be easier to depart straight from the shop," he points out, so they won't have to tread through the cold yet again.

"Besides, we're starting to get fairly close to the day. You need to help us negotiate price."

“Your baker’s going to think we’ve come to rob him.” A smile twitches at Athos’ lips as he imagines them marching into the shop fully armed. “Oh, very well.” He won’t win against Aramis’ stubbornness or Porthos’ baleful looks - and worst of all, both men know it. So he will eat cake, and stand around feeling at loose ends, and pointedly remind Aramis that he cannot, in fact, purchase all the cakes, no matter how much he wishes.

“But I’ll be having that drink, too."

Aramis doesn't dally, washing swiftly and reemerging in his trousers and a shirt, hair damp around his shoulders. He sits by Porthos' knees and hands him a jar of curl cream. "Are you convinced, then?" he asks Athos. "I suppose he told you we need you to negotiate price - well, that's true. Porthos is likely to buy all the cakes, otherwise."

Porthos could probably use a bit of a wash himself after the yoga, but he's not so bad that neither of them can bear to be around him. He takes the hair product and uncaps it to work some into his palm and then into Aramis' hair, grinning at Aramis and then Athos with a guileless shrug. "I can't really decide between five and Aramis told me there's such a thing as the groom's cake," he says excitedly, working the product to the depths of it. tipping his head forward to get to the back.

"I'll even purchase you two drinks. Sometimes, they've got champagne at the shop," he says with an excited grin. He peers up at Aramis and taps his knee. "Entertain him while I change, will you?"

Edited 2015-01-06 12:23 (UTC)

Athos exhales with a long-suffering sigh, though he looks more fond than annoyed. Don’t involve me in this he insists in the face of absurdities great and small, always immediately before they drag him in – and he allows himself to be dragged.

For a moment, his heart betrays him, thoughts drifting to a different sort of ‘involvement,’ but he dismisses such imaginings before they can take root.

When Porthos departs, he regards Aramis with a different sort of question in mind. “What’s got him so keen on the weather?”

Aramis affects a shrug. To let Porthos witness this particular weakness is one thing - he has already pledged to love and respect Aramis no matter what comes. Athos is as dear a friend as can be, but he is Aramis' comrade, and Aramis would not seem a poorer soldier in Athos' eyes. "There was some trouble with that storm the other day. All the signs were obscured in the drifts and the wind, and I got turned around. It will hardly be a problem today."

He stands and collects their coffee cups, taking them to the sink. "I expect you to be on my side today. All the food has been left in Porthos' purview, but if he is to choose the groom's cake, I get to choose the other."

Once Porthos has changed into a thick black woolen sweater and pair of jeans, he grasps a pair of gloves and sets them on the counter, heading back to the two of them where he can run his fingers through Aramis' hair one more time to tweak and curl and make sure it looks presentable, affixing his earring back into the hole as he settles on the armchair.

"I heard that," he says pointedly. "You can pick whatever you like, so long as I find the taste acceptable."