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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“Paperwork?” Athos tips his head to look at Porthos with puzzlement, unable to fathom what their current situation may have to do with anything so bureaucratic. “You’re mad,” he adds mildly, on the subject of children. Athos would never dare voice objections to their intentions to leap into fatherhood, but neither does he have a similar wish. He will be there, he supposes, but he cannot imagine what role he will have to play. The children will have fathers enough, and a mother somewhere, and surely some sort of caretaker. What more could he offer?

“But I would never ask you to alter any of your plans,” he says softly, and swallows hard. “I would stand beside you as all your mad dreams are realized.” He flushes, the confession heartfelt and difficult to say, for all its brevity. Athos would have followed them anywhere they allowed him to, even if they had never ended up quite here. “Is that family enough?"

Porthos shrugs, not sure he sees the confusion when it comes to paperwork. "If you're with us, you need to be a contact in case something happens. You need to be able to access our money, have your name on any deeds for a house," he says, because that's what he honestly believes. His voice falls away, though, when Athos says two words that make him flush with worry, hoping that this won't all end because Athos doesn't want children.

And he doesn't, does he? Why else would he protest so if he didn't? So how can they be three if one doesn't want a part of the family as much, even if he's standing beside them. How does it work when two are married and the third is just as loved? These are the things Porthos himself is still struggling to understand. "And a house in the country," he says, but they've spoken of that. "And you," he finishes. "You with us, growing old with whites in your hair and a bit of a stomach because my food is just too good to be ignored."

"Just remain with us," says Aramis, lifting up on an elbow. Athos' words are not what he most desires to hear, but neither are they what he most fears - that Athos will leave them. He convinced Porthos that he could be a good father, Aramis might work the same magic with Athos, yet. Even if he cannot, so long as Athos does not abandon them to their mad hopes, he and Porthos can survive.

He traces the chain around Athos' neck with his fingertip, leaning in to kiss the locket that hangs beneath it. "All this time, that's been enough." And now Athos trusts them with more, more than even Aramis has dared to dream of - surely all is possible if Athos has begun to hope again. "Trust us to look after you.

Athos snorts softly at the image Porthos sketches, turning his head to look at him with a fond and slightly dazed smile. For so long, growing old at all was not a thing he dreamed of, and certainly not so contentedly. And yet Porthos speaks as though it is the most obvious thing in the world. For a moment, it’s just as real to Athos.

He cannot forget, though, what that future sacrifices: the duty and honor of the musketeers, the life he had chosen in France when he most needed direction, and these men still by his side. They have found a different duty here, and Athos no longer questions the rightness of what they do, ridding devils from this place, but Darrow is not his home. Even with all Aramis and Porthos offer, he isn’t sure it will ever be. They will hate that, and Athos already hates himself a bit when he thinks of his unhappiness poisoning those he loves.

But with these two men by his side, perhaps he can bear it. “I do,” he murmurs, wrapping his hand around his locket, which is warm from Aramis’ kiss and being pressed between their bodies. “I would follow you anywhere, you fools. You should know that by now.” What might have been an admonishment on anyone else’s lips could not be more fond on his.

"You say that now, but we're about to spend a lot of money trying to get what we want," Porthos says, cautious through every step of this because he doesn't want to ruin it, but he also doesn't want to lose it. "Fifteen thousand is what we're going to need for the beginning of all this. Between the lawyer and the agency, not to mention when we actually find someone," he says, a bit fretful.

"And the house," he adds. "We'll start looking soon. I hope you'll come, too. It'll be your house, just as much."

"We have to begin right away," says Aramis on Porthos' heels. "The process can take time. Some couples wait years." His earnest expression wilts at that. As long as he has already waited for children, it is hard to think of waiting even one more year, let alone many.

He reaches for Porthos' hand, twining their fingers. "So we must rush to wait. By the time we manage it, we hope to at least have room for them."

By God, they have so many plans, plans that still seem so wild and impossible, for all Aramis and Porthos swear by them. The thought of so much change so swiftly, when he has barely found his footing as it is, forces Athos to swallow back panic. His gaze settles on the ceiling as he struggles to contain his expression and his thoughts. He had known all this before he had decided to accept their offer, had promised himself that he would never stand in the way of their overflowing happiness, even when it overwhelmed him. He must keep that promise now.

“The money doesn’t trouble me,” he assures them, a touch of amusement entering his voice when he adds, “So long as it does not end with all of us in debtors’ prison. And I have no complaints about a house in the countryside.” Athos looks at one of them, and then the other, and all at once it dawns on him that they might be as afraid to lose him as he is to lose them. He swallows back a lump in his throat. “I’m not going anywhere, gentlemen. I swear.”

Porthos fears waiting years, but not for his own impatience. He's not sure he's ready to see the dismal look on Aramis' face with every passing day that they aren't on the path they want to be on. "One thing at a time, though," he confirms. "The accounts, that's the first and easiest. Just a trip to the bank. Then you can come with us for the house." He twists up his fingers in Aramis' hand, staring at him fondly.

"Then, the lawyer and the interviews begin, once we've got the money." And he intends to get that money as soon as he possibly can.

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.”