du_vallon | (no subject)

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Wearing the scarf that had been purchased for him last year, Porthos has managed to recreate his outfit as best as he could. It's not exact and it's hardly the same (honestly, he doesn't remember much about the night beyond the scarf, the food, and Aramis bending down on one knee while the land passed by). It's all those things he's glad to recreate as he settles onto their table on the boat, fidgeting as if he's expecting yet another proposal.

Like an eager child at a party, Porthos' eyes are casting about everywhere they can, desperate to find the waiter for champagne, though he remembers to check in with Aramis, because being at sea (even so limited) can't be enjoyable for him. "Are you okay?" he murmurs quietly. "Should I get you something stronger to get your mind off the water?"

He's practically bouncing from eagerness, so happy to be back as he is.

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Porthos lets out a soft exhalation, but it's a whine that's giving in to Aramis, nodding in consent because he doesn't want to get into trouble now. He does huff out a laugh, kissing Aramis' neck. "I can't believe you're actively easing us away from mischief. I hardly recognize your words."

"I am becoming responsible in my old age," says Aramis with a breathy laugh, shuddering bodily as Porthos kisses him. "Sangdieu, how long is this bloody boat ride?" he wonders aloud, laughing again as the shore passes slowly by, so near and yet impossible to get to.

Porthos grins even wider as he eases back, taking hold of both of Aramis' hands to tug him along towards the table again. "C'mon, let's go have some cake and I can stare at chocolate on your lips," he encourages. "And think about smearing it on other parts of you later."

Aramis follows with both disappointment and relief, a little weak kneed when he sinks into his seat at the table. "Oh, you will be the death of me," he says, chuckling faintly. He reaches for the cake as it if might bite him, for it takes very little from Porthos to push Aramis into reckless acts, be they prurient or dangerous, and he lifts a bite with trembling fingers.

"Only if it's decades and decades from now, I hope," is his delighted reply, laughing warmly as he slides into his seat and steals a fork so he can start to poke and prod at the cake, more eager to watch Aramis enjoy it, a besotted look in his eyes.

"Good?"

Aramis cannot stave off a moan as the chocolate bursts on his tongue, and he casts a startled look at Porthos, as if expecting to see the man's clothes already somehow gone for the noise.

"Very," he manages, offering the next forkful to Porthos.

Porthos stares at Aramis, eyes wide as if he's been smacked in the face by someone's fist. The moan has made other parts of him strain even harder and he lets out a whine, but suppresses it with a bite of his lip, breathing in as he stares at Aramis, leaning in to nibble off the cake from the fork.

Closing his eyes, he takes his time appreciating it, whole visage softening with pleasure for the sweetness burst on his tongue.

"You see?" asks Aramis, sounded a bit strangled, "It's quite heavenly." He tears his eyes from Porthos' blissful expression to stare at the chocolate still clinging to the fork. "What a pity we cannot bring it back with us to the hotel room."

Porthos bites his lip as he opens his eyes, licking off the sweetness from the corner that's stained there. "I recall last year, they let me purchase one from the counter," he remembers. "It would definitely be something that would be put to good use. Don't you think?"

"We'll certainly need it," Aramis agrees, looking at the wall the counter resides behind as if he could see straight through it. "One or more, I think, in case our appetite shifts from deviant to real."

Porthos grins as he peers over the edge of the boat, leaning back to catch sight of the water and how far the dock is. "I'd say about five or seven minutes," he says, leaning back in. "Until we reach our favourite stop. The one right outside our hotel," he says with a bright grin, having many fond memories of that hotel.

"Thank God in all his mercy for that," says Aramis fervently, watching the distant port that will deliver them from this glorious boat to an even more glorious hotel suite. "Now leave me be, if I am to walk to the hotel, I need to make more room in my trousers."

Porthos laughs as he gives Aramis a playful pout, unable to help himself as he leans back in the chair, draping his arms out to his sides. "What? Am I distracting you or something?" he asks with a smirk.

"You know you are. I have half a mind to make you hide your face with the menu," Aramis tells him, reaching for the glasses of ice water next to their champagne. For a moment he is tempted to dump one over his head and the other into his lap, but in the end Aramis makes himself take bracing, measured sips.

Porthos grins broadly and lifts up the menu to do precisely that, but he only ends up covering the lower half of his face, his eyes still sparkling and spirited with mischief. "I still remember when we were first dating and found whatever alleyway to sate the kisses we wanted. I doubt we could even manage that without finding our way to the floor, now."

"Yes, well, now we know what we are missing when we are patient, don't we?" asks Aramis, leaning over to test the new distance of the port. It is still loathsomely far, and he gulps down more cold water.

"I can feel you looking at me."

"That's because I am looking at you," is Porthos' wise retort. "You should just be grateful I haven't got my foot up your thigh," is what he feels inclined to remind Aramis, seeing as he could be behaving so very much worse right now. "Do you not like my eyes on you?"

"I like it too much," Aramis tells him, something Porthos knows very well. He loves those eyes, at times warm, at other times fiery, but always beautiful. "Sometimes I think you could look at me long enough and I would spend right then and there."

"Flea used to say the same thing to me, you know. Except, it wasn't that she could feel me looking, she just told me to watch my eyes," he says, doing his best imitation of her with a wry smirk. "I told her about you, you know," is what he says, setting the menu down, knowing Aramis will be strong enough to ignore temptation. "And your beautiful face and body and heart."

"And was this while you lay in bed together?" asks Aramis, not opposed to the idea. "I am surprised she allowed it. Flea seemed like the sort of woman who preferred to command one's singular focus when in her presence."

Porthos snorts, because she would have allowed it, but tormented him for the inattention. He shakes his head. "No. This was before, when the three of us were getting deep into our cups. At one point, I think I started to ramble a touch too much about you and about Athos, and in the course of the night, I imagine she heard a lot about you that I didn't intend to say. Namely, your arse and lips."

"I hope you did them justice," Aramis replies, daring to drink his champagne again now that the dock is finally coming into view. He gestures at Porthos with the glass, wrapping his lips against the rim of it after. "What did you say of them, precisely?"

Porthos has to strain to recall this. Groaning, he gives Aramis a pitiful look. "I was so drunk in the Court when they rescued me," he protests. "I probably confessed the depths of my feelings to Charon in the middle of everything, babbling to Flea about how I want nothing more than to get my hands on your arse."

It's definitely not dignified, he knows that.

"Well at least it was honest," says Aramis, standing abruptly when he feels the engine slow. He stares at Porthos in alarm, realizing they will have to move quickly to secure those cakes. "Move quickly, man," he says, "Time is of the essence."

Porthos laughs as he dredges himself to his feet, groaning for the ache he still feels, but is quick to dig out his money and hurry to the counter. "You go make sure they keep the plank down for us," he instructs to Aramis, wanting to surprise him with the cakes that he's picking. Biting his lip, he grins as he looks at the array and picks up the chocolate one, but also a vanilla one with heaps and heaps of frosting.