somepoorsoul | (no subject)

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aramis

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For the first time since he moved into the apartment above Aramis and Porthos, Athos’ television is on.

No, Athos has not entirely avoided the most ubiquitous form of modern entertainment, for his friends have coaxed him into watching all sorts of ridiculous tales on the flickering screen in the lower apartment. Some, he might even - quite grudgingly - admit to having enjoyed. But he has steered clear of the dull black box in his own rooms, and whatever mysteries it contained.

The blame for its return to life now can be laid squarely on the cat. What the damn creature had done, Athos has no idea, but he had emerged from his bedroom to find lights and noise brightening the apartment, and the feline standing innocently in the center of the room. No amount of shooing or coaxing had moved the cat or turned off the television, and Athos had finally given up, settling on the sofa with a book and proceeding to pretend that those flickering lights aren’t distracting him in the least.

The cat, on the other hand, comfortably curled in Athos’ lap, seems quite pleased with the entire situation.

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Certain that he will never grow used to Aramis’ easy compliments, Athos huffs and looks away, the sheepish turn of his smile revealing pleased embarrassment as well as any blush would. He does not refuse his friend’s help, letting Aramis slide the waistcoat onto his shoulders. Despite Athos' unexpected fear that this moment would be lost to the ether if he spoke, the thrum of energy between them has not lessened, and even the light touch when Aramis’ hand brushes Athos’ arm makes him shiver. But absent is the tension that has colored so many interactions among all three Inseparables since a certain revealing, unsettling, and utterly memorable December day.

Aramis settles the waistcoat carefully, his fingers moving to do up the buttons with speed, for he is more eager than ever now to see Athos' fully dressed - and isn't that a change from his usual feelings where those he finds attractive are concerned? With Athos' pleasure unspoken but all but palpable, were he anyone else, Aramis would already be searching fervently for the right moment to strike, but with Athos he is careful. Not for the sake of their friendship, either, but for the sake of Athos, himself.

Reckless though Aramis has often been with his heart, he refuses to be with Athos' own, and he helps Athos into his jacket next, doing those buttons as well before he adds the pocket square and steps back.

"Oh dear," he says, a little stunned despite his own predictions. "Ruinous." Aramis laughs, grasping Athos' elbow. "Do you have a proper mirror in this place?"

“That bad?” Athos offers a self-deprecating smile, and when Aramis grasps his elbow, he instinctively leans into the touch. Never has it seemed so easy to imagine pressing their lips together - not even with passion or need, but with a simple appreciative gentleness. But that is not what they are to each other.

He takes a breath to steady himself. “I am afraid le paon will have to provide the mirror, if he truly finds it necessary."

Porthos' pet name on Athos' tongue startles another laugh out of Aramis, and he grins and bows again, this time with flourish. "You may become one yourself," he cautions, "After you see yourself in this."

It is difficult, then, to release Athos when he leans so sweetly into the touch, and Aramis settles for pulling him towards the door, opening it with caution to see if Porthos has yet returned. He truly would like to keep his own suit a surprise until the day, but he hears nothing, and Aramis turns back to Athos. "We have the perfect one in our bedroom. Come."

With a skeptical hum Athos allows himself to be pulled to the stair and down to the apartment below. Though he is sure that he will pass muster - the suit on its hanger had hung too finely to do any man disservice - he still does not expect more, despite the surprising interest in Aramis’ eyes and the compliments on his lips. Only when he is before the mirror in the bedroom does he begin to wonder if Aramis was, in fact, being something more than kind.

Almost absently, Athos runs a hand through his hair, and then tugs down his cuffs.”My compliments to your tailor,” he says finally, meeting Aramis’ gaze in the mirror.

Indeed, the effect has not been overstated. Aramis has not even looked at his own person in the mirror, standing next to Athos with his gaze caught in a continuous sweep of his form. "Yes," he agrees, "It is fine work," but he turns, studying Athos, for something is not quite right.

Reaching, Aramis takes a lock of Athos' hair curling over the wrong side of his part and rights it, tucking another behind his ear. "Now you are perfect," he murmurs, transfixed by the brilliant shine of Athos' eyes when framed in all those blues.

There are those who believe Athos’ heart made of stone; it’s a reputation he has not bothered to contradict, though he knows Aramis and Porthos saw past his veil of stoicism long ago. In that sense, he has no reason to hide his feelings from the man before him. But habits are difficult to break.

Athos closes his eyes in a long blink, moved by the words and the awe with which Aramis now regards him. He wonders if he will ever get another chance to act; Aramis and Porthos will be married soon, and both men have quite determinedly give up other lovers. Despite the offer made to him, Athos doesn’t know what, exactly, they wish from him in the circumstances, and half expects (with part relief, part disappointment) that their vows will mute any romantic interest they have towards him – assuming his rejection has not already done so.

But the look in Aramis’ eyes requires response, and with sudden clarity, Athos determines that he wishes to give it, before the opportunity is snatched away. With a hard swallow, he steps closer, and though he does not press his lips to Aramis’, they are close enough that it would be an easy thing to do.

“I do not know what has come over me,” he confesses softly, and he could be talking about the past few minutes, or the past few months.

For all that Aramis has wished for it, his eyes widen when Athos steps closer. He feels his heartrate pick up, his body awash with a feeling that is at once familiar and new - hope for what is to come, surety of his welcome, a desperate wish that he is not wrong, for this is Athos. But for all that Aramis looks for moments to seize, this is a moment to fall into, and he does, laying a hand over Athos' heart as he slides fully into his space. He palms Athos' narrow hip with the other, an urge to stay, even if Aramis will not force him to.

"Do not overthink it," he advises, for the best things in life are the simple ones. With a breath, Aramis lifts his chin, catching Athos' warm, dry lips against his own.

Convincing a man like Athos not to think overmuch is no small task, but miraculously, Aramis manages it. This time, there is no surprise, no thread of panic that’s intoxicating, but ultimately overwhelming. This time, it is just a kiss, memorable and longed-for, and though Athos trembles slightly, and his heart beats a staccato under Aramis’ hand, no instinct tells him to flee this time. In fact, he fully enters the embrace, one hand resting on Aramis’ arm while the other cups the side of his neck, Athos’ mouth coaxing a little more out of the kiss than he probably should.

Aramis' hand contracts against Athos' hip for that touch to his neck, and if Athos means to steady him, Aramis feels his knees grow weak, a reaction not many have managed to provoke. But he keeps his feet, elation making him smile into the kiss even as he deepens it. By Aramis' standards, it remains quite chaste, and still the pleasure derived in it is enough to spin his head. Athos, he thinks. This is Athos. The tiny moan that tries escaping him for the thought is what finally reigns him in.

Aramis breaks away to breathe, though he does not go far, resting his forehead against Athos' own. "Don't be angry," he says, just in case. "Sometimes I am just so glad that you are here."

“Ah, is that all you were trying to tell me?” Athos murmurs with a flicker of a smirk, startled to hear his voice so steady. But if Aramis’ knees feel ready to buckle, then Athos’ feet feel surprisingly firmly planted. In fact, it is Aramis who keeps Athos grounded - and is that so unexpected, really?

He can still feel where Aramis’ beard roughed his cheek, and wonders at the strangeness of kissing a man, of kissing this man, and the fact that it does not seem so strange at all.

They cannot stand here like this forever, though Athos longs to with the power of all that dammed-up foolishness he has until now kept at bay. He closes his eyes and takes a breath. “You are to be married.” The statement is almost wry.

"Yes," answers Aramis, and suit be damned, he wishes Porthos were here now to help him navigate. He has never been one to need help parsing his own feelings, but this involves all three of them, and this glimpse of what could be only makes the getting there feel more precarious.

"To someone I love very much, who loves you in turn, just as I do. Athos." Reaching for his hand, Aramis lifts it, pressing his lips to the center of Athos' calloused palm. "Our dearest wish is to be as we were at home - the three of us, but more, as only Darrow could allow us to be. I don't expect that desire will ever be truly gone from us, even if you deny yourself to the end of your days."

Aramis lowers Athos' hand, but he keeps hold of it, and will, until Athos takes it back. "It is not entirely selfish. We think we could make you happy."

For all his steady feet, this show of tenderness leaves Athos lightheaded. He looks away, but hooks his fingers around Aramis’ to keep him close. In all honesty, he cannot imagine that any arrangement among them could mean more than the depth of the friendship they have already forged, but he knows what Aramis means, even as he struggles to wrap his mind around it. What Aramis describes is everything Athos could want, and yet so strange and foreign that he can barely comprehend it. “You have given up other lovers,” he reminds Aramis, for he still cannot quite believe that he is some miraculous exception. He would never betray Porthos’ confidence, but Athos has not forgotten the man’s fears that Aramis will tire of him - unfounded though they might be. Athos would do himself harm before he stood in the way of what Porthos and Aramis have forged.

"Porthos hates that word," murmurs Aramis, looking down at their entwined hands. "I know - " he says and stops, hating that he has never been able to articulate this to Athos. It is clear enough in his own heart, but he can't blame a man who hid him from a jealous husband on their very first meeting for holding doubts.

"I know you have thought me fickle," he says at length. "But for years, it was as if there was an itch beneath my skin. I wanted a home, a family, and I found as close to it as I ever thought I might in the garrison - a bed, brothers - more than some ever find, Athos. But it never felt quite like enough. And then..."

Aramis shrugs. "Darrow. The world opened up, Athos. Porthos is more than my brother now, and you are here. My life is more complete than it has ever been, and Porthos is happy. Nothing could make me endanger that, so you must believe me when I say I am sure. We both are."

They want him. They want him as part of this bond that they have forged, indelible as anything between the two of them. If what Aramis suggests is unorthodox and difficult to comprehend, then is that not part of the power that has always existed in their friendship? Is it not right, somehow, that they make their own sort of life, and damn the rest?

Understanding rocks him back as though he has been struck a blow, and Athos nearly flees from the excess of feeling that sees fit to overwhelm him after all. This is not the first time he has asked himself such questions; nearly ten years ago he had said damn the rest and pledged to marry Anne, never mind the scandal and disgrace that might come. Such blessed possibility has not laid out before him since, with hope so tangible. And Athos is terrified.

He slots what scraps of his stoicism he can gather back into place, for it is either that or collapse under the weight of memory, though he clings all the tighter to Aramis’ hand. “I need to think,” he admits, hating how his voice breaks slightly. Swiftly he adds, “Understand, it is not you or Porthos that I mistrust.” Athos’ own heart is the truly dangerous thing. Experience has taught him that much.

"I know," Aramis assures him. He thinks of Isabelle, of Marsac, of the fissures they'd carved in him and the long years it took to again feel whole. "The heart takes time to heal, but it is our most resilient organ."

Aramis squeezes his hand. "You will see. Now." Lifting Athos' hand for a last kiss, Aramis releases him and smiles. "I will leave you to your thoughts, or to Space Hospital. Whichever proves the most intriguing."

For a moment, Athos feels as though he has forgotten to stand without Aramis’ support; he takes a breath and finds his footing and steadiness, first clasping his hands behind his back, and then, seeing Aramis’ tie pushed off-kilter by their embrace, reaching out to straighten it.

“Tell the tailor that the suits are perfect,” he says with decided wryness, aware that that goes without saying. Clearing his throat as he steps back, he adds more gently, “Thank you.”

He owes Aramis and Porthos the world, and dearly hopes they know it - for their patience, and their steadiness, and yes, their love.

"They ought to be," says Aramis with a wink, the rakish effect somewhat spoiled by the large, happy grin he wears. "You paid enough for them."

He cannot help himself a last, needless touch to Athos' hair, fingers trailing against his shoulder after. "You are welcome. Come to dinner, yes? Tomorrow, if not tonight. You have my word we will only eat."

“I did, didn’t I?” Athos knows he must leave this room, and step beyond the reach of Aramis’ searching, gentle touch, but this simple departure might as well be the most difficult thing he has ever done. The thought that Aramis and Porthos will be waiting for him when he is ready gives him the courage he needs. “I will be there tonight,” he says without hesitation, though his stomach does a flip. He suspects that Aramis will waste no time in telling Porthos about this, and Porthos will look at him differently when they see each other again. With more disappointment, perhaps, at the further rejection. Or maybe with more hope.

“Don’t let Porthos see you wearing that. He shall rip it off you, and then all my money will have gone to waste.” With that parting shot, Athos leaves Aramis alone with his thoughts.

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