du_vallon | (no subject)

(no subject)

Porthos had lost his shirt ages ago. On purpose, at least, but the humidity has been killing him and in combination with the hard physical labour he's been after, it all boils together to become one very big bad idea to be too clothed. He keeps the shorts on, mainly because they're loose and breath and he needs something to protect him from too many splinters. He keeps prying off the ridiculous hat Aramis had foisted on him, mopping up his sweaty face and curls with his t-shirt, exhausted but knowing this is saving them money.

It just seems silly to pay someone to move the beams out of the rooms when Porthos has two working arms. That said, after two hours of labour and getting the wood to the yard for pick-up, he's beginning to think he ought to take on a side job and just pay for it. Ducking to pick up a bottle of water, he only drinks half before he douses himself with it, giving Aramis a suspicious look.

"You'd better not be lifting too much," he warns, still anxious even though it's been weeks since the hospital stay. "I'm gonna be cross if you throw out your back."

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"We'd be their foster parents until someone wanted to adopt them," he says. "Or they might stay years and not ever find a family and so long as we could care for them, we'd be fine," he says, still stroking his fingers through Aramis' hair. "You get a stipend, too, from the city for doing it." Not that it matters, but it would help to take in more.

"It'd be better than having to fill out form after form always, spending more and more money when we should really just be an open home."

"And if we did not take them, who knows where they might go?" Aramis wonders aloud. "It sounds as if we could do a great deal of good." Aramis leans over, kissing Porthos' cheek. "If that is what you want, then I will do my best to make our home a happy one for them."

Porthos gives Aramis something of a nervous smile, shy for the fact that he thinks he's figured out how he wants to approach it. "I do want it," he says firmly. "And I want to be able to do it without running us into the ground, as far as money goes," he adds, holding Aramis close in, though the chill of cool water on hot skin makes him hiss slightly. "Besides, if they like it so much and never get adopted, we'd still get to raise them."

"That sounds as if it might be best for all," Aramis tells him, kissing him again when Porthos hisses for the water, dragging a hand along his flank to warm him. "I hate to think of you growing attached, only to have to let them go."

Porthos chases after the kiss, selfish for another, even though he knows there's no way he wants to be having sex on a rock. They're bound to get themselves scraped up. On the ground next to their things, however, is a different story. "If they really wanted to go, I'd have to find it in my heart to let them," he says, already knowing it would be hard, but necessary.

"And if it were the best thing for them," Aramis argues, for the last thing he wants is Porthos' heart to break a second time when something awful happens to them.

His lips tingle, and Aramis leans in for yet another kiss, beginning to grow warm from more than the sun. "And our own children?" he asks. "How many?"

Porthos is more than happy to indulge in kisses, though the laziness of them is slowly evaporating as he cups Aramis' face with one large hand framing his cheek, rolling slowly on top of him. "Think that's yours to decide right now," he murmurs softly, having intended to give Aramis space when it comes to this topic. "You tell me."

Aramis shifts, only just able to bear Porthos' weight against the rocks. He turns into Porthos' calloused palm and breathes deeply. "I don't know," he admits. "One, at least. I still want our daughter. I would like more, but even more, I want what you want, Porthos. And whatever Athos can bear."

"I'd like for us to have a son," he admits, even though that hadn't occurred to him for some time. "However many tries it takes. I really want to do right by a son, the way my father never did for me. I need to do that," he admits, shifting off of Aramis so he can wind his way to his feet, standing and stretching out slowly, sun glinting off his skin as he climbs back over to their clothes.

"C'mere," he growls. "And I told you. I'm doing this at your pace, now."

Aramis lifts up on an elbow to watch Porthos' progression, his smile soft rather than prurient as he gazes his fill. At the missive, he rises, stretches once before he stalks over to Porthos and his blanket.

"I would love to meet your son," he says fervently. "To raise him with you, to hold him, tuck him in at night." Aramis draws a breath. "To watch him grow, knowing that he is happy and loved."

Porthos tugs Aramis back down into his lap, stroking his fingers through Aramis' hair, marvelling yet at how handsome a man he is. "I only wish he could be both of ours by blood. I don't think a handsomer child would ever be conceived," he says, aware he's boasting, but also aware it's not far from the truth. "We're going to have that sort of life here," he says firmly. "One with love, no matter how many people are under our roof."

"Yes," Aramis breathes for all of it. Alive in him are all the dreams that had faded with his ordeal, but he wants now more than ever to give Porthos a family. "You will be a marvelous father," he swears. "I am so anxious to see it. And Athos, for all his stubbornness, I cannot stop believing that he will find happiness with a child at his knee."

Porthos carefully guides him into his arms, giving Aramis a cautious look. "But if he isn't content or he doesn't find happiness, we're not going to push him, right?" he checks cautiously and carefully, a touch nervous that they might push Athos away by forcing the things they want on him. "I really don't think he wants kids, Aramis," he confesses.

"I don't mean those of his own," Aramis tells him, though they would certainly be welcomed. "But he will not be able to escape ours. I would like them to be his family, too, even if his is a more distant relation of his own choosing."

It's true that Athos will be around them. Porthos has high hopes that Athos will find his own niche with them, will teach them and grow to love them, but he still remembers what Athos had asked of him at the shelter that day. He gives a small sound of agreement that doesn't sound entirely sure, but slides his palm over Aramis' hip to ease him in closer, staring at the house in the short distance. "Uncle Athos, then?" he suggests quietly.

"If he likes," says Aramis, but he cannot disguise the hope in his voice. "The way he took to d'Artagnan, right from the beginning, the look on his face when he speaks of Thomas..."

Aramis shakes his head. "I still feel there is a part of him that would like to be mentor to someone, to care for them, even mold them."

"I'd very much like if that wound up being our family," Porthos says, closing his eyes to fight off the ache to think that Athos will do that for strangers, but will not provide it for the very family they hold so dear. He gives a quiet sound, turning to capture Aramis up in a tight kiss, tangling their bare legs together as he slides in to press their bodies flush together. "What will we do in our house next?" he asks, barely more than a murmur.

Aramis moans, the reaction to Porthos' body so familiar he scarcely notices the sound, hands sliding behind Porthos' neck to keep him so very close. "To prepare it?" he asks, a little breathless, even as he rolls his body against Porthos'. "Or when it is completed?"

"To prepare," he clarifies, because he thinks that they have an awful lot to do. He grins as he nuzzles his nose against Aramis' neck. "I keep looking forward to new magazines in the home, but you haven't gone near mad with the house as you did with our wedding," he accuses playfully, moaning when Aramis rolls against him and causes such lovely friction.

"That madness with the basement stole my energy," Aramis admits, chasing away the evil memories with another roll of his hips. "I will throw myself into it anew," he promises, pulling Porthos' face to him so he can kiss his mouth, working it open with deep sweeps of his tongue.

"I don't know if I should tell you this, but the home magazines get me going," he confesses, thinking of all that gorgeous polished dark wood and the kitchens they always show. "Maybe you could book a contract shooting some photographs in one of those spreads," he pleads, kissing Aramis desperately for the thought of him in the middle of a kitchen like that. "With an apron. Posing with small children."

Moaning, he threads his fingers through Aramis' hair to roll them until he's on the bottom, hauling Aramis down for a longer kiss.

Aramis follows him down eagerly, blanketing Porthos' body with his own. "Making them pancakes, perhaps," he says, pressing wet, sucking kisses along Porthos' throat. "Opening one of those great, double doored refridgerators, hip cocked as I survey its contents."

Porthos lets out a helpless sound as he rocks his hips upwards, desperate and rough. "Don't taunt me like that," he breathlessly replies, biting his lip hard as he throws back his head to let Aramis at his neck. "To think of it all gleaming and shiny, with so much lovely food in there, and high stools for everyone to sit on."

Aramis laughs in delight, nipping at the tendon in Porthos' neck. "This truly does excite you," he says, snaking a hand down between them to wrap around Porthos' cock. "I think I'd like to have you," he admits, "Right here in front of our home, while you tell me of the kitchen that turns you on so much. What of the counters?" he prompts, stroking Porthos. "Are they marble?"

Porthos hadn't brought anything to help them, no lube or lotion and he tries to think in a scramble for what might do in a pinch, but he's having trouble thinking of anything. "Granite," he murmurs, thinking of how sleek they had looked in his mind. "Warm tones, though. And I want a big, big window that lets in all the light, no matter the time of day." His hips hitch forward into Aramis' hand, little gasps escaping past his lips.