somepoorsoul | (no subject)

(no subject)

Athos awakens in a weary haze of memories. Though the clock tells him it is mid-morning, he feels simultaneously like he has slept for days and not at all. A few moments pass before he realizes why he cannot shake the sights as senses of his childhood - the smell of forget-me-nots, Catherine’s bright red hair (he has not even thought of her for ages), Thomas’ boyish laughter. Then he remembers, and he exhaustedly presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He is tempted to remain abed until someone comes looking, but that would only delay his shame, and anyway, Athos is too honorable. He dresses slowly in garments that once again seem familiar as he tries to piece together the last few days, memories coming to him as though being relayed by someone else. Sheepishly, he misses the body and heart of his youth; he had been frightened and shy, world-weary too soon, but free and unfettered in a way he has not felt in some time.

Unfettered, perhaps, but also a fool. He has matters to explain, and hearts to mend.

When Athos carefully comes downstairs, his eyes are red-rimmed, and though he has tried to put himself back together, he knows he must still appear out-of-sorts. He can already smell coffee, thank goodness. But whether or not Aramis and Porthos will welcome his company is something he has yet to discover.

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Porthos lights up to hear that his thighs apparently hold a power to them that he hadn't truly counted on. His smile lights up his face and he squeezes Athos' hand again, happy to hear that he'd still had an effect on Athos. "One more," he pleads, because now that they've started, he can't bear to stop. "Did you think me some sort of brigand or pirate? You clearly didn't think me really a Musketeer."

"Not at first," Aramis reminds Porthos, and that has been true of a good many, unfortunately. It is regrettable, but also to be expected. Aramis strokes his hand against Porthos' back, pouring more brandy into his own glass with his free hand, and then into Athos'.

“At first, I did not know what either of you could be,” Athos insists, looking down at his hand clasped in Porthos’. “But I believed what you told me. I did not entirely understand, but I believed you.”

“Porthos,” he sighs, knowing there is more he must say, as explanation and apology both, though the words are difficult and come out awkward and stilted, “as a youth, I still expected men to fall into neat categories, and have you not always defied category?” Athos smiles faintly. “In time, I would have understood it to be your best quality. As I do now."

Porthos stays quiet, giving Athos the chance to explain and tell him everything he wants to. He knows Athos doesn't mean it, knows that he'd been young, but it had still stung to be looked at the way Athos had, because in all the time he'd known the man, he had never been like the others to look down on him that way. "I just didn't expect to ever see those looks from those blue eyes of yours," he confesses.

"Nor are you likely to again." Whatever Aramis' fears, surely this mad place will give them a rest now, a chance to recover from such upheaval without transforming or altering anyone. "You have the best of Athos now," he reminds Porthos. "Honed by years of wisdom and experience. Few men grow up as instantly wonderful as you."

“Never again,” Athos agrees, feeling a lump rise treacherously in his throat. It is as though some vestige of the more volatile youth he had been still remains, forcing emotions he would prefer to keep hidden to linger near the surface. Both the younger man nor the elder one shy from Aramis’ warm words, and he bites his lip and bows his head, a small tremble dancing across his shoulders. Neither can he easily offer the easy excuses for his behavior in youth - that he had been frightened and confused, or young and stupid, or had not really meant it, though all those things were true in part. Instead, thinking of La Fere, and all the pain it has brought both him and those he loves most, he says, “If I could cut that part of my life free, I would do it in an instant."

Porthos snorts derisively for Aramis' last comment. "You only think I'm wonderful because you didn't see me at sixteen," he feels compelled to point out, but is happy to move on from that because he knows that he's already forgiven Athos and hopes to move on from it, knowing that there's one last thing he does want to know. "Athos," he murmurs softly. "I know you don't think of me that way. I know you care for both of us and you learned from your childhood," he promises. "Can we please begin to tell people of what we feel for you? It makes my heart ache, lying to people when I want them to know how much you're adored."

Aramis sucks in a breath. This is not the conversation he expected them to have, yet as soon as Porthos says it Aramis wants it with renewed urgency, his heart aching for the reminder of the freedom they might enjoy, yet still do not. For all the shackles that Athos has thrown off, he still wears too many for Aramis' happiness, and now he and Porthos too feel their weight.

He clears his throat around the lump, nodding at Athos with bright eyes. "It is not easy," he says, "Hiding what we feel."

Athos swallows, looking at neither of them in his thoughtful silence, though one hand remains clasped in each of theirs. He is not expecting the soft request at this particular moment, but neither is he surprised, exactly. In so many ways, Athos has stood apart from them during these weeks in which he was returned to youth, and he can see now how it has pained them. It has pained him, too. And by forcing them to stay silent, is he not keeping them at arm’s length yet?

He may dread revealing the intimate details of his life to others, but more than that he does not want this distance to remain. Slowly, barely perceptively. Athos nods.

Porthos hadn't really expected victory. He'd thought this would just be one of the first moves forward, eventually bringing them to some sort of agreement, but now his entire face lights up with the joy of it, so pleased and proud. "I'm not gonna rush out and tell people," he promises, squeezing Athos' hand and Aramis' in turn. "But now, when people ask about me and my love life, I can tell them that you're as loved as Aramis, in the same way."

"It was hard, two weeks with you so young, not being able to share it with anyone but each other, a touch," he admits, not sure if Aramis had felt the same.

Aramis, too, brightens, and it is not as if he has expected Athos to be closed off from the world forever, a secret joy only for themselves to treasure, but that it is happening at last is a welcome surprise.

He laughs and claps his hands, seizing Athos so tightly after it's clear he's only just resisting pulling him into his lap, and nods for every word of Porthos'. "We have longed for it," he agrees. "Thank you, Athos."

Athos shakes his head, holding just as tightly to Aramis in return. He cannot accept the thanks, not when he had no right to beg for their silence in the first place. Oh how he has missed them, for even though he did not consciously remember them while he was trapped in the mind and body of his youth, he had felt the hole where they belonged, a rawness in his heart that he had not understood, at the time. He swallows back a lump in his throat. “I would not have you suffer because I am a bashful idiot."

Edited 2015-05-20 02:55 (UTC)

Porthos can't help his shaky smile for that, feeling like after so long apart, everyone needs both the comfort of togetherness, along with the affection that can only happen in a different room in this flat. "On your feet," he instructs. "The both of you. Athos, you're long overdue some affection," he insists. "I'm sure Aramis feels similar."

"I am never overdue," says Aramis, deliberately confounding Porthos' meaning with a smirk as he hauls Athos to his feet, taking him by the hips to steer him backwards towards the bedroom.

"Are you up for it, amorcito?" he asks, his expression tender, becoming triumphant as he aims it over his shoulder at Porthos. That name suits Athos very well.

Athos sends Aramis a dark look that manages to perfectly articulate what will happen if he calls him that again.

It will likely have no effect. Aramis has grown resistant to his warnings over their years together, and the inoculation has only been strengthened since they fell into bed together. Despite himself, Athos smiles.

Athos has always preferred to answer with action instead of words, and now is no different. He finishes his coffee, the brandy that remains at the bottom of the mug both sweet and sharp, soothing and invigorating. Then with a sly smile, he captures Aramis' wrists and hauls him close enough to kiss with all the desperate, unsteady relief the morning has brought.

Porthos smirks when he sees Athos' little look, huffing out a laugh. "As if I don't already call you my lapin grincheux and have no intention of stopping," he says, because that's the whole truth of the matter and one he's somewhat proud of. He follows the two of them, eager to be back to something he feels comfortable in and there really is no better than this.

Aramis grins for the silent rebuke, well assured of his ability to condition Athos to loving the name very much indeed, but his mirth is soon arrested by the kiss. Aramis groans and wraps his arms around Athos, holding onto him with a fervor he's banked for weeks, and kisses him deep and thorough, as if his body is afraid it might lose him all over again.

Still, it is no hardship to turn them when they've entered the bedroom at last, pushing Athos back into Porthos' arms so Aramis can undress him. "Lapin grincheux and you complain," he murmurs around kiss swollen lips. "You could be his cabbage."

Athos just shakes his head, but the look in his eyes is too bright and too full of warmth for him to express any real anger. Let them call him whatever idiotic names of love they wish, just as long as he can remain in their arms.

Dizzy from the power of the kiss, Athos wraps one arm around Porthos’ waist, relief flooding him at the feel of being back in these arms, the wall between them melting away. Athos will likely never think himself worthy of Porthos, not really, but at least he knows that now, like this, he can bring the man happiness. Finally taking in his changed appearance properly, Athos runs a hand over Porthos’ shorn head, faintly amused. “You cut your hair."

Porthos holds Athos tight when he's given the man as if a present, burrowing his head down to allow his hair to brush up against Athos' neck, rubbing back and forth to give him a preview of what it feels like against his skin. "It was getting a bit unruly," he admits, "and starting to frizz. Best for the curls if I cut it every now and again, let it grow out." He lifts his gaze, giving Aramis a fond look. "Aramis likes it. Do you think Athos does, chouchou?"

"If he does not he certainly shall soon," replies Aramis, wrapping his arms around Athos from behind so he can undo his trousers, pulling them down without hesitation, and sets his fingers to the buttons of Athos' shirt next. "Wait until he's rubbed it all over your body," he suggests, leaning in to speak against Athos' ear with a smirk for Porthos. "You'll go mad with wanting."

Nerves already afire, Athos feels goosebumps rise on his skin as Porthos’ cropped hair brushes his neck. He doesn’t like change, as a rule, but he is in no position to complain right now. “There are advantages, clearly,” he murmurs with a smirk, capturing Porthos’ chin in his hand and pulling their mouths together for a hard and needy kiss.

"Don't worry, it's not permanent," Porthos promises, but then he's being kissed and he's missed it too much to keep talking. He slides his hand into Athos' hair to bury there, desperate and eager and needy, crashing forward and pushing Athos that much more backward into Aramis' arms.

Eventually, he does need to pull away to breathe, a helpless little moan on his lips as he does. "Curls'll be back soon enough," he vows.

"I miss them," Aramis sighs, which is not to say he does not appreciate Porthos' shorn head, for he does very much - he simply wants all of Porthos, in all possible ways, and all of the time. He takes the opportunity to pull Athos' shirt from his shoulders, tossing it aside without care for wrinkles (the man probably retrieved it from the floor, anyway), and takes his time running his hands up and down Athos' bare arms.

"You were a lithe little thing," he observes. "Porthos thought you quite handsome."

Is there anything better than being pressed so close between these two men? If there is, Athos cannot think of it, especially not with his head already a little hazy with want. He scoffs, gazing with a skeptical look into Porthos’ eyes as he runs his hands under the man’s shirt and pulls it over his head. Lithe seems like a terribly kind word for scrawny, though it does thrill him to think of Porthos wanting him even then.

Porthos cannot help a hapless shrug while Athos is pulling off his shirt, leaving him with very little on as he tenderly glances between Aramis and Athos both, a great deal of affection and love in his eyes. "Can I help it? You really were a beautiful young man. It's why I thought maybe you found a few admirers."