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 laughs when the tickle is a dulled, hardly there thing. He keeps stroking his fingers through Aramis' hair, thinking back to a year ago when they'd come here for the first time. "Sometimes I wonder, what if we didn't get married," he muses. "And we'd just lived together like this permanently."

"What on earth for?" asks Aramis, lifting his head with a frown. He likes nothing better than knowing that Porthos belongs to him, and he to Porthos. He can't imagine a world where that is no longer true, or never was at all.

"So that we could prolong this notion of when we would make it official?" he guesses, but he's more than happy wearing Aramis' ring and being in his bed. "I think some modern people do that, but I prefer this. Feels like I belong."

"Quite right," Aramis mutters. "I had all the anticipation I cared for, thanks very much." Between the proposal and the near interminable wait for their wedding, Aramis could not have born another moment. "The only thing more satisfying than having a fiancé is having a husband."

"I think you go around telling everyone about me, just because you love to say it," he teases, but grins as he eases off Aramis, coaxing him onwards with a lift of his brow. "Go on. Go ahead. Call me my full name."

"You know you like it, too," Aramis tells him, lifting his head from the pillow to kiss him deeply, so deep, in fact, that he almost forgets what he's meant to do. "Porthos," he says against his lips, "d'Herblay du Vallon."

He shivers and opens his mouth to deepen the kiss because he does really, really like it. He loves being a d'Herblay, loves it because it makes him Aramis' and more of a musketeer, it feels like. "I know it was terrible when I was in the hospital after the fight, but when they gave me the bracelet and it had our name on it, I felt so whole and happy and loved."

"They would not have let me in to see you without it," says Aramis, shuddering for the thought. That night had been hard enough - if there'd been a question of his being allowed in Porthos' room, Aramis doesn't know how he would have born it. "Not without a fight, at least, which I would have given them."

"Family only," he agrees, stroking his fingers up and down Aramis' arm in steady motions, something he's done with all his bed partners. "I love watching you get all fired up about me," he muses fondly. "You're the only one, other than Athos and Treville, who ever cared about me like that and you did it sooner than they did."

"I was drawn to you from the start," says Aramis, curling into Porthos as he remembers those early days. "Even if Savoy had not done its best to ruin me, I would have desired your company. This smile," he says, tracing it, "These eyes, that laugh. And of course I wanted to fight beside you the moment I saw what you could do to a man."

"I remember you watching me," Porthos admits, given that it had been hard to miss when there was always a crowd. Often, they hadn't been cheering him on, but that had been quick enough to dismiss. He leans in to kiss Aramis' temple. "I watched you too, you know. I couldn't be stopped watching you shoot."

"Because you wanted to shoot like I do?" Aramis asks him, "Or because you like my hands?" He strokes them now over Porthos' back, letting his callouses lightly scrape against his skin. "You are so warm," he murmurs, growing distracted, and leans in to steal another kiss.

"I liked the way you shot, your hands, your mouth, and the joy on your face," Porthos confesses, grinning as he leans into those hands, kissing back when his furnace-like capabilities are complimented. "You don't mind it at night?" he asks, barely more than a mumble. "Some of my lovers didn't like it."

"I wouldn't feel right sleeping without it," says Aramis, stretching his entire body out, only to remold it to Porthos'. He burrows in against his shoulder, nosing until he's found the warmest place to tuck his face. "The children will love it."

"Does that mean our bed will be shared by you, by Athos, and by the children? I haven't the limbs to go around," is his warm, delighted protest, unable to help his happiness for such a scenario in his mind. "You're plenty warm, too. Maybe they'll decide to mold to you, hmm?"

"I hope so," Aramis confesses. "It won't be the bed we have grown used to - my days of sleeping in will certainly be at an end - but it will be a happy one." He grins and lifts his head. "We'd best get to that bath, I am growing entirely too comfortable."

Porthos pinches Aramis' side, pleased when he finds just the slightest bit of a roll there (it's hardly noticeable) and he sits up slowly, using all the strength he's got left in order to pick Aramis up and throw him over his shoulder, porting him into the bathroom casually, like he does this all the time. "Warm or cool?"

"Warm, for heaven's sake," says Aramis, dangling where he is but no less insistent, "I hardly want the equivalent of a cold shower on our anniversary night." He looks at the bathroom's display through the space between Porthos' shoulder and side. "Ooh, bubbles."

"Cool just means I can warm you up," Porthos replies, but gently sets Aramis down where he can sit amongst plush towels while Porthos does the work and begins to pour bubbles into the bath, grinning as they start to foam up almost immediately. He laughs and leans down to kiss Aramis hard, a possessive, eager thing. "I'll fetch some oils, maybe massage your shoulders," he murmurs.

Aramis catches Porthos' shoulders, doing his best to keep him close so Aramis can kiss him again. "That sounds heavenly," he says as he releases him. "I do enjoy our tub at home," he says, leaning to trail his fingers through the bubbles, "But we really must get a huge one like this for the house in the country."

"So if I design the kitchen and Athos the study and you the bedroom, does that mean the bathroom is to be all of our design?" he wonders, fumbling through a little basket of treats to find oil, setting it on the side of the tub before he approaches Aramis again and bends down for a harder kiss, unwilling to let him go so easily.

"You have both thoroughly mocked my ideas for the bathroom," Aramis tells him, albeit breathlessly after that kiss, his whole body listing towards Porthos'. "So I will content myself with only a large tub, and the pair of you can argue over the sink."

"Keep giving me such nice touches and I'll be open to giving you whatever you like in that room," is Porthos' new opinion on the matter, seeing a whole new light broadcasted and opened up by Aramis' lips (as is so often the case with so many things).

"Three sinks, then," says Aramis, sealing the pact with another deep kiss. He pulls Porthos down onto the marble rim of the tub, the seat blanketed with plush towels, and climbs into his lap. "Might as well spend the time it takes to fill the tub creatively," he notes, and sucks at Porthos' ear.

He lets out a ragged sound, already agreeing with a sound filled with abject need and hope, willing to give him five to ten sinks if that's what he wants so badly. "You're always such a good thinker," he praises fondly, spreading out his legs to provide a better base. "What'd you have in mind?"