somepoorsoul | (no subject)

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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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Thoroughly bared as he is, Athos can only pant and whimper. Porthos is relentless, insistent, perfect, and his mouth drives Athos towards release with as much fervor as the memory of watching the two men joined together. When he comes, he shudders, and groans, and bites his lip, relishing the way Porthos drags every last bit of pleasure from his body.

Porthos refuses to let a single drop go to waste. He swallows him back eagerly, with great delight, and licks his lips as he crawls back up to nestle in between the two of them, happy, comfortable, and finally feeling at home again. "There's so much to tell you," he mumbles, his voice rough as he wraps his arm around Athos' waist, burying his face in his neck to get comfortable. "So much you've missed, in the past weeks."

Huffing as he is dislodged from Athos' still trembling body, Aramis curls himself against Porthos' back, hanging on and allowing himself to drift now that they are all sated. He hums his agreement, nosing idly at Porthos' shoulder. "This, for one."

“Mm.” Atho turns his head to smile softly at them both. He is still sticky from their exertions, and though he is loathe to leave the bed, if he does not do something now, he will regret it later. “A moment,” he tells Porthos with a kiss, already imagining ruefully the trouble they might have gotten up to while he was too young to notice.

Porthos smiles happily for the kiss, impatient now that he's got Athos back to normal and they've made up, but he can wait a moment, if only that. He reaches back to give Aramis' hip a squeeze for support, a fond grin on his lips. "Do you want to tell him or should I?" he asks of Aramis.

The question is enough to pull Aramis from his near dozing, and he lifts his head, peaceful expression drawing tight and pinched. "I don't know," he admits quietly. He does not like to think himself a coward, but Aramis finds himself suddenly afraid of Athos' reaction. He sucks in a breath and holds tighter to Porthos. "I will, if you wish."

“Tell me what?” Athos eyes them warily when he emerges from the bathroom after wiping himself down, and feeling steadier and refreshed for it. He looks at Porthos, hopeful and wide-eyed, and Aramis, the discomfort startling on his face after his earlier bliss, and he lifts a brow. Athos does not even need to say the words, for his expression does the work: what have you done?

Porthos gives Athos the smallest of little smiles, feeling like a child again. He's a boy, eager for a pat on the head. "I've decided to use the money that De Foix left me," he admits, giving Athos a long, hopeful look.

Sitting up, Aramis gestures to the bed, hoping that Athos will remain near to them for all of this and, God willing, long after. He nods, his expression serious, but hopeful, too. "However he came by it, the money can be put toward good, and - " Aramis looks down at Porthos, drawing strength from his own certainty. "And we'd like to put it toward family and a home."

There is something so serious and hopeful in both their expression, and that makes Athos approach the bed with care, stretching out beside him with his head pillowed on his hands. He nods when Porthos explains, satisfied with this news, at least. Had he not urged the man to do precisely that, to put the money towards his own happiness? A moment passes, though, before the implication sinks in, and when Aramis provides it, he nods again, expression tightening only briefly. “Yes,” he says quietly, “Of course.” And then, “Good.”

What else can he say? Aramis and Porthos are on their way to getting everything they want, and he can hardly object to that.

Porthos sits up slowly, giving Athos a tender look and an even gentler touch of his hand when he reaches out to hold to him, giving him a long look. "You and Aramis both helped me to understand why I should use it," he says. "That it's meant to be for a future, for here, for us. We'd like to show you the house that we've picked to move to because it's every bit as much yours."

"All of it," Aramis agrees, pushing past the unsettled squeeze of his heart when Athos' expression tightens. "As much as you want. You will live there, you must have a say in the way it goes up, and - "

Aramis clears his throat. "And you are part of the family we want."

“You have already chosen it.” This news, admittedly, startles him a bit, offering up the painful reminder of precisely what he had tried to push out of his mind at their initial revelation: that as a pair, they had plans of their own, a life of their own, into which he still only awkwardly fit. He drapes his forearm over his eyes, trying to make the gesture casual, though he hopes it hides some of his hurt. “I suppose I should see what you have found, then.”

He takes a breath, forcing back the panic that fills his throat. This future is what they want more than anything. More than they ever wanted the honor of the musketeers, more than they want him, even. And for that reason, Athos wants them to have it. “I know,” he answers Aramis softly. “I’m not going anywhere."

"It's mostly land right now," Porthos admits. "The house is in no shape to be lived in, it'll have to be torn down and rebuilt in the image we like." He watches Athos carefully, so desperate for him not to run out, not to leave them, but he knows they have to be honest. "You'll have to help by telling us what you wish of a house. I only care about the bed and the kitchen."

For all that Porthos wears a poor poker face, sometimes Athos is just as bad. Porthos rearranges himself so that he's tucked under one of Athos' arms, settling in and curling in possessively close.

Aramis curls himself against Athos' other side, not plucking the arm from his eyes, but kissing it. "If you do not like the swathe of land, there are others," he promises. "But I have seen you riding in those fields that surround it as clear as day, and I know you will see it, too, when you come with us."

More quietly, Aramis adds, "I think we could make you happy there. Happy like you ought to have been with her."

The memory of Anne strikes him particularly harshly, not through any fault of Aramis’, but because memories that were absent only yesterday seem fresher now. He had been happy, that was the trouble. He had found happiness and had it snatched from him. Athos fears finding and losing happiness all over, but he also fears never finding it, not the way Aramis and Porthos wish him to, and disappointing them once again.

Still, their warm presence so close at hand soothes his beating heart. Athos is enclosed and protected by them here, in this moment, whatever is to come. He knows the house is only a prelude to the rest - that is what frightens him, not the thought of leaving this putrid city for the countryside - but for now can only imagine one wild step at a time. “Promise me you will not sign anything until I see this bit of land, then,” he quips. “I won’t have you purchasing some impractical rocky slope because you like the romance of it."

"We've an appointment with the estate agent to see the land again in a week's time," Porthos says, drawing idle patterns now on Athos' chest as he smiles fondly. "And there's no rocky slopes. Only endless fields to ride in, maybe some room to plant vines in the event you want to grow your own wine," he says. "Some place we can make our own." And that means the other thing needs to be discussed.

"We do have an appointment in three days time at the agency," he says quietly. "For Aramis to give his donation."

"The land is not unlike that surrounding Buttercup's farm," Aramis agrees, but sobers for the rest of what Porthos says. "The process can take time," he says, heart fluttering restlessly. "A lot of time, if one is unlucky. We must begin right away."

He lies down himself, though he stays close to Athos, hidden though his eyes might be. "I suppose the process could be considered crude, but it is the only way for us."

“This is precisely what I mean by romance,” Athos sighs when Aramis invokes that film, of all things. But all of a sudden, it is as though the men are talking in code - agency, donation, process - and it is only knowing their hearts as well as he does that he can begin to guess what they might be talking about. “Ghastly, I would say,” he deadpans, for he knows it is better to joke about their process than to beg them to hold off just a little longer, to give his heart some more time to catch up.

"We want one of blood before looking to orphans," is Porthos' mind on the matter, given that he would be more than happy to take in a lost child, but he knows that having a baby with their colouring and Aramis' blood is important to the man. "And it's not a romantic notion of the land, I promise," he says, as sensibly as he can.

"Athos, talk to us," he pleads. "Tell us what you feel."

"It is somewhat romantic," Aramis insists on Athos' other side. "Of all the places we looked, we could best see the three of us there. What is more romantic than that?"

But he quiets, or tries to, to give Athos a moment's speech. "Now that you are our Athos again, we want you with us, in all things. Please tell us what you think."

Athos shakes his head a little, the rejection automatic, though after a moment he passes his hand over his eyes and lowers his arm to his side, piercing gaze coming to rest on the ceiling. Aramis and Porthos will not now take no for an answer, not as they once might have, but the words he must say take effort. “It is my dearest wish that both of you be happy, and your inheritance must be used to that end, Porthos.” He captures Porthos’ hand and squeezes tightly as he takes a breath. “I only did not expect all your plans at once. It is…unmooring.” He swallows hard, and hates the way he stumbles through his next words. “I thought…I expected you might at least consult me before you went searching for this land.” Athos does not even dare bring up children; they know of his ambivalence there, that it grows deeper the more real they become, and he will not bring the hurt on their faces by expressing it once again.

Porthos eases back, giving Athos a curious look. "I hadn't thought you were interested in that side of things," he says, and means it honestly. "But I should have," is what he says next, instantly. "We would never purchase anything without showing you. We'll take you out there several times so you can get a feel for it. Besides, I'll want your name on the lease when we sign."

"It has to be one third yours, after all," he points out, a blissful smile on his face.

Porthos is right. Athos is so reticent, even to those who know how to read him. So often he is content to be swept along in the tide of his and Porthos' eager planning, Aramis had not thought him to have strong feelings on the home at all. But Porthos is right about that, too - they ought to have asked.

Aramis frowns and extricates himself from the bed, deciding that a drink - water or otherwise - will do them all good. He journeys to the kitchen and stacks three cups, returning with them, a pitcher of water, and a bottle of wine tucked beneath his arm. "We can even start again," he says as he sits atop the sheets, working the cork with his teeth. "A child will not come swiftly. There is time to occupy with the home."

“You never asked.” They look so hopeful, so full of warmth, and Athos cannot help a faint smile, despite the ache that remains in his chest. This is why he tries not to interfere, why he has offered only the smallest and briefest comments on the matter of children, and the house, and all their other dreams - they look so happy when they speak of it, and he dare not risk uttering the wrong word that might break their hearts. But if he merely follows after them, will he ever feel as though he truly belongs?

“You have such plans," he adds, trying to stay light, "It is difficult to get a thought in edgewise, you know."