du_vallon | (no subject)

(no subject)

It's impossible what Porthos has just seen, but he can't have dreamt it. He'd pinched himself a dozen times just to make sure. He's been at the library to research photography and modelling, wanting to learn a bit more about it before he shows up at Aramis' job to see what he does. There, he'd seen people fawning over some sort of glass orb, like a little sun. He'd drifted closer out of curiosity's sake, but then everything had cleared and he started to see images, hear distant words. It can't be real, but it's too perfect not to hope for.

Because in it, it's Aramis with gray all over his hair, beard streaked with silver as he stands in the midst of a fancy kitchen. People Porthos doesn't recognize swan in and around him, picking up food and kissing his cheek. Porthos bristles a moment before he looks closer and recognizes those features and those faces. Two adult girls, an older teenaged boy. Young ones running around, a pup and a grown cat.

Those features that Porthos would know anywhere because he sees them every day on his and Aramis' faces. And it can't be a coincidence that he watches them call Aramis 'Papa' when they bid him goodbye. Tearing himself away, Porthos gets home faster than he ever has before, shocked and in awe.

Could he have imagined it all? It'd seemed so real. He'd watched for thirty minutes and seen Aramis, himself, and even Athos amidst all the happiness (and there could be no mistaking that they were happy, given the smiles on their faces). Porthos bursts into the apartment, doesn't bother greeting Aramis or the cat, and heads straight for the closet that Aramis had put the vision board in. He hauls it back to the cork board and starts to pin it all into place, leaning over to grasp a pen so he can start scribbling the minute details of what he'd seen.

He can't lose any of it. It all has to happen.

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Half asleep on the chaise, Aramis wakes instantly for the whirlwind tearing through their apartment, on his feet and dazedly reaching for weapons when Porthos thunders past him and into the bedroom, seizing something Aramis hasn't been able to look at in weeks and attacking it with vigor.

"Porthos?" Aramis calls, a little cranky for the furious racing of his heart, "What in blazes?"

Porthos has to pause when Aramis asks him what's going on, having been stuck on what kind of dog it'd been and where the fridge was in the kitchen. Why hadn't he thought to just bring the thing home with him? He taps the pen against his forehead and then remembers, tongue to his lower lip as he bends his head to keep scrawling in big, loopy writing on the wall, ignoring Aramis until he's got it all out.

"Porthos," says Aramis, unnerved as well as agitated now, "Are you bewitched? What on Earth are you doing?" He steps next to Porthos, one hand on his shoulder to pull him away as his eyes rake over the words Porthos is so keen on writing down. "Two little ones? A dog and a cat? A wide sink? What is this?"

Porthos has been eager for their future, too, but he's never surpassed Aramis' planning fervor, and certainly not so manically. "Porthos?"

"Don't distract me, I'll forget it," he complains, turning back to where he's been sketching the way the window had let in the light, trying to recall what they had called one of the children, but he'd remembered watching the happy way Aramis had called after Ana. It's that little memory that unlocks the rest and when Porthos is done, he caps the marker with aplomb, turning to Aramis and pushing him to the bed, pinning him down.

The kisses he plants on him are aggressive and hard, over those not-yet-silver strands of stubble, the hair that hasn't gone to grey yet, the eyes without their lines. Without even asking, he rips off Aramis' trousers and sinks down to get his mouth on him.

Aramis is still staring at the sketch when Porthos abruptly throws him down, and he spends a moment just keeping his hands out of the way while Porthos devours him. His body catches up all at once, and Aramis groans, hips lifting in search of Porthos' mouth before he remembers himself.

"Porthos," he gasps, a little desperate between his suddenly hard cock and his fear that Porthos is unwell. "Just tell me you're alright."

Porthos looks up, a crazed look in his eye as he stares at Aramis and swallows him as deeply as he can while gripping his hips. He does that a few more times, inching up and reaching wildly for the lube to start slicking himself up, then Aramis. "You were so beautiful," he raves. "Even twenty, twenty five years on you, and you were as beautiful as ever. And so kind. And you were cooking," he announces before shoving Aramis' knees apart.

The words are nonsensical, mad, even, Aramis realizes with a rush of fear, but Aramis allows Porthos to slick him, thrust fingers deep inside of him and force his knees apart. Whatever else is happening, Porthos needs this, and Aramis could never deny him.

"How?" he asks, breathing hard as he tries pulling Porthos forward where he can cradle him in the heat of his body. "How could you see me in such advanced years?"

"There was this globe at the library," Porthos rambles, not allowing Aramis to cradle him gently as he shoves up Aramis' knee in order to start driving into him with a desperate, keen moan, barely preparing him for more than a few seconds. "And when I looked into it, I saw our house and you and me, our kids, Athos, our pets," he says, punctuated by thrust after thrust.

"Aramis, I want to show you," he says, eyes bright. "But right now, I want to write down everything I saw and I want to feel you around me."

"Go on, then," Aramis pants, trying to hang onto Porthos' shoulders as he drives into him. "I won't break." Managing to get his legs around Porthos so he can at least cling to him through every rough thrust, Aramis watches him through slitted eyes. He has no idea what this orb could be or if it shows truths or lies, but if it works Porthos into such a frenzy, Aramis is beginning to be grateful. "Take what you want, cariño, it feels good."

Porthos feels a touch bad about this, but it's been so long and he can't help it. Aramis looks so handsome and more than that, Porthos knows, now, in his heart, that they're going to have so many happy, perfect years together. He drives into him with every ounce of passion and need that he's got. "I want you," he growls. "C'mon," he insists, thrusting harder until they're slamming up against the headboard, a repetitive, insistent, thrust of noise echoing in the bedroom.

Aramis throws a hand back to brace against the headboard, pushing to meet every thrust. When the next thrust drives in hard over that hot place inside of him, Aramis cries out, and then it is as if the floodgates have opened for he cannot stop, shouts and groans and pleading whimpers punched out of him each time Porthos thrusts forward. "Don't touch my cock," he begs. "Let me come like this."

He'd give Aramis anything he wanted. Pushing harder and harder, he drives into him and lets out a whine of a sound, eager for both more of Aramis' heat around him, but also to take him to the library and to that perfect, magical, little orb. "You should've seen them," he moans. "Our children are perfect," he says. "Our daughter, the second, with such bright hair and our son is so beautiful," he murmurs, still not sure he believes it, but he wants to with all his heart and soul.

"We have a son?" Aramis breathes out, choking on the moan that wants to follow. Perhaps it is only a trick of the place, but Porthos believes so fervently, Aramis cannot help being drawn in, clinging to Porthos now as tears prick at his eyes. "A son, and two daughters? Porthos." Aramis pulls back to pant up at him. "Their names?"

"He's definitely ours," Porthos vows, low and insistent. "Your eyes, your face, but my hair, my skin," he says, hips snapping as he wonders who is the actual father. "I don't know their names, I didn't stay long enough to know," he murmurs, gripping at Aramis' shoulders as he comes inside him with a ragged cry, like talking about their children has made Porthos want to try and foster them naturally, despite it being impossible.

Aramis feels it, too, a part of him forever changed by the woman he'd been for long days, her aching need for children still within him, and when Porthos comes buried deep, his sweat slicked belly pressing just right against Aramis' cock, Aramis comes, too, shaking with the force of it. No tears come when he squeezes his eyes closed, but he sobs all the same, face buried in Porthos' throat as he thinks of them, all of them, their family.

"Show me," he pleads. "I want to see them."

Porthos sags forward, forehead pressed to Aramis' as he rubs it back and forth, kissing up Aramis' stubbling throat as he thinks with such happy delight of the adopted ones and in there, with the others, a blue-eyed perfect quiet little boy who'd seemed out of place -- but only in that he'd seemed to gravitate more to Athos. Grasping his shirt, he shoves trousers at Aramis and clothes himself, grasping at Aramis' hand to haul him up.

"Come on, we have to go to the library," he says. "It's there," he says frantically. "It's all there."

Aramis stands and nearly falls, throwing a hand out to catch himself between Porthos and the wall. "Now it is I who will walk bowlegged," he says with a faint smile, giving his body a shake as if to return it to use.

He bends gingerly and tugs his trousers on, stepping into the first pair of boots he sees. "All the way to the library," he breathes. "Alright, I am ready."

"If I weren't so weak in the knees, I'd carry you there," he vows, licking his lips as he hauls on his jacket, breathing rapidly as he reaches out desperately for Aramis, laughing madly. "There were these little ones around," he praises. "I think they were adopted." He locks the door behind them, taking the first few steps on the road towards the library, praying the orb is still there.

Aramis looks down and realizes he does not even have a scarf, but it does not matter. He crowds in against Porthos to share his heat, so warm with anticipation already he could not be cold for hours. "Your foundlings," he says with a happy laugh. "Could it be, Porthos? Will we truly have it all?"

"I hope with all my heart that it we can," Porthos swears, his eyes bright and shining with tears of joy and hope. He wraps his arms around Aramis, knowing they must smell awful and look disheveled, but he's giddy beyond the telling of it. He keeps them hurrying along, pushing at Aramis towards the library and the stacks.

"There," he says. "There, in the back, on that pedestal. There was a crowd before, but I looked into it and it was everything playing out at once, like our future was right there."

Aramis peers and spies in the near distance an odd sort of sphere, just as Porthos has said. "It is like in cinema," he says, "When they look into a crystal ball. How does one make it work?" he asks, stepping closer. "How - "

But he trails off, suddenly dizzy as the world seems to shift, and reaches for Porthos' sleeve. Someone runs past them, a young girl with Porthos' curls and wide, guileless smile, and Aramis makes a sound of pure longing.

Porthos sees the kitchen again, but this time it's quieter. There are books around the table, everyone at quiet study while Porthos himself is in the image, cooking dinner and staring proudly at the children, who are still all manner of grown and handsome like he can't believe. In this moment, he thinks a dozen fights that leave him unable to move are worth it, if only to bring about this future.

"Aramis," Porthos manages, voice in his throat. "I'm not scared anymore," he admits. "I'm not." His eyes are still fixed on the scene, thinking it so perfect.

Aramis looks at Porthos and realizes his eyes are fixed in a different direction, watching something that Aramis cannot see, but no less moved for it.

"I love you," he exhales, not disturbed but joyful, for the ache in Porthos' eyes is the same one he feels in his own heart. "Porthos, they are young for me. There is a girl, a laughing girl with your smile. She's looking over her shoulder."

Aramis cuts off again as another Porthos strides into view, bearing new smile lines around his eyes and mouth, but not much more, and sporting a child over each shoulder. "Porthos."

Porthos murmurs a soft 'I love you too' to Aramis, but his curiosity sharply draws his attention away from the future he's seeing to try and see what Aramis is staring at, wishing that they could be seeing the same thing, but they're not and it's so confusing as to why. "What?" he demands. "What is it? What are you looking at?"

"You are carrying them on your shoulders," says Aramis in a choked voice. "A girl of no more than five, and a boy. He cannot yet be three years old. They are all laughing, screaming to be let down, and the other girl evades your grasp."

Aramis turns bright eyes on Porthos. "She has your cleverness."