somepoorsoul | (no subject)

(no subject)

Though he has spent much of the last week imagining Aramis and Porthos’ return - in anticipation, and joy, and a bit of fear - now that he knows the moment draws near, he finds himself teeming with uncertainties. There are things he must say - now, before the opportunity slips through his fingers forever, and all he has left is the memory of those moments in the stables, the press of lips against his and hands blissfully burning his skin. Athos still does not trust himself, and perhaps he never will, but he trusts his friends, more than he has trusted anyone. And so, there are things he must say.

But first, he must welcome his dear friends home. Athos has not attempted to make a meal for them, knowing that no meager fest he could concoct would match Porthos’ skill in the kitchen. But he has procured a few bottles of fine wine, one of which sits already open and half drunk on the kitchen counter. The steadying of his nerves has taken one, and then two, and three glasses. Now, shamefully, he pours himself a fourth.

He has never been very good with words.

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Aramis feels a touch lighter for the fondness in Porthos' expression, and again for Athos' promise not to leave them, even as they lay more hardships at his feet.

He smiles and stretches, thinking idly of how wonderful a hot bath would feel. It is frequently where he and Porthos find themselves after a tumble, and Aramis finds himself gazing in the direction of it now. "We will need an even bigger bath," he murmurs, "If we are to fit three."

Aramis’ comment breaks some of the tension in Athos’ expression. Fondly, he rolls his eyes and informs Aramis of what he surely already knows: “You are ridiculous.” His gaze refocuses on the ceiling, and he wishes he knew how to roll towards one of them and bury his face against their skin, and be assured that they will manage, somehow, as strange, and new, and frightening as it all seems.

“I have a request,” he says instead, grimacing slightly as he imagines their reaction of what he is about to ask for. “Let me tell others about this. In my own time.” It’s a bit horrifying, this idea of telling d’Artagnan, or Allison, or, God forbid, Constance. But worse yet is the thought that he might see them, and realize that they are looking at him differently, and it is because they know.

Porthos thinks they might need a whole tub, square and comfortable and with jets -- the sort they've seen when they stay in hotels. He smiles privately to think of such luxury and hears the coins in his head tumbling to add to the total. He turns to Athos, frowning when Athos makes his request, not because he disagrees, but because...

"I'm not good at lying," he says cautiously.

"He truly is not," Aramis laughs, curling his body around Athos' to pillow his head on his shoulder. "I will have to escort you everywhere, Porthos, and stop your mouth as needed."

He rubs his cheek against Athos' skin. "Take your time, but do not be overlong. And prepare yourself now for Allison's screaming. It means she is both happy and scandalized."

Athos may still hesitate when seeking comfort, but when Aramis offers it, he curls needily into his embrace, closing his eyes as he presses his face to Aramis’ hair. “I wouldn’t ask you to lie. Just…perhaps resist shouting from the rooftops for a time.” He offers Porthos a wobbly smile.

He's still unsure and wary, but he bows his head lower, slinging his arm around the both of them to draw them in tighter before he presses slow kisses to Athos' shoulder. "Maybe I'll just take Aramis up on his suggestion to follow me around and kiss me whenever I might feel inclined to share my joy," he insists, because it is a joy he wants to share and it will be so hard not to tell people.

"Can I ask why?" he tentatively pursues the topic.

Aramis expected this. Athos has always been a private man. It took him ages to admit there had once been a woman, and five years before he could even tell them her name. Still, a happy secret is far easier to share.

"Our friends were surprised to learn of Porthos and myself," he says, curling his palm against Porthos' hip. "But not unhappy. They will not be unkind to you."

How remarkable it is, the way everything in the world seems easier when they hold him close. “I need to explain this myself,” Athos says quietly, hoping Porthos can understand that. “And to do that, I need to find the words.” Secretly, he wishes he could keep the entire affair private, safe in this embrace, where it could not be tarnished by the outside world. But that would be cruel to Aramis and Porthos, and so he must find a way to reveal this bit of his heart.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs wryly, fingers absently stroking Aramis’ side. “Some people would call Mademoiselle Argent’s squeals an unkindness."

Porthos listens thoughtfully and nods when the words filter in. He thinks he understands, even though he's not entirely sure he fully agrees, but he nods his head and lets his lashes flutter on his cheek as he stares at the both of them, groaning when he forces himself to sit up long enough to fetch their blankets, wrapping them all snugly, tightly in. "Only because you haven't gotten your ears numbed to them," he chides, leaning over Athos for a broad grin and a steal of a long kiss from Aramis' lips.

"Besides, I think she suspects," Porthos confesses, a bit sheepish and guilty. "I might have stared at you a bit much at the bachelor party."

"And the reception," says Aramis without rancor. It's his own fault, after all, that Athos had been so devastating in his suit. "Porthos keeps a secret as well as he lies." He catches Porthos' chin before he can slip away, kissing him again before falling back to his pillow of Athos' shoulder with a sigh.

"It's his handsome face. It's too expressive."

“And for weeks before that,” Athos adds fondly. He hadn’t known what to do with those longing looks before, and even now, the thought of them makes his stomach do a flip. What Porthos sees when he looks at him with wide-eyed, boyish love, Athos cannot tell.

Yes, Porthos’ shoddy poker face is the gaping flaw in his plan, and the thought that Allison might already suspect makes Athos grimace. But he has weathered worse storms before - worse than Allison’s mad enthusiasm, or d’Artagnan’s inevitable half-horrified shock. For Aramis and Porthos, he will do his best to find the words he needs.

Porthos stubbornly refuses to be ashamed of what he feels and what might have shown on his face. As far as he's concerned, it's hardly the end of the world and he kisses Aramis with fondness, moving his lips to kiss Athos with equal quiet adoration, cupping his cheek. "I will try my best to keep it to ourselves," he vows, firm and devoted. "But those who know me might know something's changed. It's hard to keep that sort of happiness buried."

"You will have the glow of a newlywed, at least," says Aramis, fingers circling Porthos' ring before he lifts his hand to kiss it. "We will play it up as much as we can."

He is quiet, then, wondering if he should ask, especially when Athos has said he does not know what to tell them. "When you do find the words," he finally ventures, "Will you tell us, too?"

Athos trembles slightly into the kiss from Porthos, briefly covering his hand with his own. He still wonders at the idea that he could be the source of any spillover of joy, especially when he brings so many burdens with him. “What I intend to tell the others?” he clarifies, frowning at the hesitation in Aramis’ expression. Admittedly, a man of sparse words as he can be, Athos might not have thought to do so without prompting. “Of course. If you would like.”

“It is not that I do not know what you are to me,” he adds after a silence. “Only that it is not an easy thing to articulate.” Surely they, of all people, understand how he struggles with words to express his innermost emotions.

Porthos blushes at the reminder of his newlywed state, given that he feels a flush and a swirl in his stomach at the reminder of it, no matter what's happening. "And I'd like," he says, to Aramis and Athos' questioning. "I know he would, too. There's something firm and comforting, knowing in words what we mean to you, even if we already know in our hearts," he says with soft assurance.

"And besides, then we can picture your pretty little flush when you say the words," he teases.

"They are nice to hear when volunteered," Aramis agrees, even as he nips at Athos' throat, "Though we are not averse to dragging praises out of you by other means." He grins. "Or begging." Whether begging for praises or making Athos himself beg, Aramis doesn't clarify, for of course he means both.

Athos makes a soft, pleased sound, barely more than a sigh, Aramis’ mouth on his skin proving an easy distraction. He arches his neck, a tiny smirk curving on his lips. “Ah. I should have expected you would have an ulterior motive.”

Porthos is momentarily dazed, struck by how simple and happy that Athos looks and it's all because of them. The shock gives way to something a touch softer and he nuzzles in against Athos' neck, tightening his grip on Aramis' hand because he doesn't dare let go of him or where he moves their hands to his own hip, brushing the hem of his briefs. "Part of me thought I'd only ever dream this side of you," he confesses, feeling raw to say the words. "That I'd never know if you sighed so happily or if I could ever make you laugh."

"We have still yet to hear the latter," Aramis murmurs, watching Porthos' face with a brief ache when he can do no more than squeeze his hip. He nips at Athos' skin again, hoping to treat Porthos to another sigh, and shifts until he can insinuate his other hand against Athos' ribs. "I discovered a very interesting laugh of Porthos'," he says, pushing experimentally, "Whenever he's touched just here."

Athos’ expression crumples a little, Porthos’ words making him ache with guilt and gratefulness. Oh, that he knew how to stoke these embers of contentment always, for his own sake, and for those he loves. He thinks he would do anything to see that beautiful hope in Porthos’ eyes, much as it frightens him.

Aramis does win himself another tiny sigh, though it turns to a sound of disgruntled surprise when Aramis pokes him. “No reason to try it on me,” he huffs.

Porthos glowers darkly at Aramis when he brings up that particular weakness, giving a low huff and knowing what's coming next. He sighs and resigns himself to his fate, giving them both a look as he reclines back to lie flat on his back. "Go on, then," he allows. "It was bound to happen eventually."

"I live in hope," says Aramis, leaning over Athos with an unrepentant grin. He kisses his mouth and then the tip of his nose, then clambers over him to answer Porthos' invitation. Straddling his hips, Aramis leans down to kiss his nose, too, beaming at him with delight. Just the thought of Porthos' high pitched giggle is enough to undo him, and Aramis is already laughing when he drags his fingertips down Porthos' ribs.

Athos watches amusedly as Aramis clambers over him to poor Porthos, who already looks resigned to whatever fate he is due. And when he inevitably emits an entirely un-Porthos-like high-pitched protesting squeak, Athos grins.

“Well, well."

Porthos braces himself, his nose wrinkling up after the kiss before he closes his eyes and surrenders to the tickling touch, gasping and giggling with ridiculous, unmasculine gasping laughs, twitching and only pinned down by Aramis holding him. He swats at his hands eventually when it becomes too much, huffing.

"You'd better not abuse it the way he does," he says. "He only found out by accident, too, thinking I was liking it," he accuses of Aramis.

"You do like it," Aramis informs him, soothing Porthos' indignance with another kiss. "I had hoped that might be enough," he admits, and leans down to speak in Porthos' ear, voice pitched quite loud enough for the three of them, "We will finally hear that laugh of his."