du_vallon | (no subject)

(no subject)

With the bribe of a nice dinner, Porthos had managed to get Aramis to come out appliance shopping with him, eager to find something for the house even though it's not going to be a while before they need to fill it with anything. Part of him is just pleased to poke around and see what they've got, admiring features he doesn't really need but sound wonderful to have. "Here," he says distractedly, but frowns when he hears Aramis' phone going off.

Athos wouldn't call them unless it's an emergency, but after their last few appointments at the agency (with lawyers and surrogates and contracts), he's been nervous every time he hears the phone ring. Stopping and freezing where he stands, gripping Aramis by the shoulder hard, his eyes widen in hope.

"Aramis, maybe it's...?" he trails off, not daring to truly believe.

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"Which is your favourite?" Porthos wonders, standing in the doorway as he strips off his shirt, not aware that Aramis has been playing favourites when it comes to his clothing.

"The green paisley with the playful frills," says Aramis at once, leaning a hip against the kitchen counter as Porthos peels off his shirt. Head cocked, Aramis worries at his bottom lip as he enjoys the view. "Particularly with something tight underneath it."

"I'm not wearing anything that tight today," he promises, but makes a mental note to wear something other than the green one (like the sleek blue and white one that covers up everything). He finishes with his trousers and underwear, drifting back into the bathroom to shower. "I'll be quick!" he calls. "I just want a quick wash."

"Alright," Aramis calls with a last look, turning to crank the oven onto high. In lieu of clothing, he ties the soft blanket around his waist and goes to the fridge. He pulls the duck out and sets it on the counter, along with the knives Porthos seems to favor, then pulls out several potatoes. He washes them at the sink, humming faintly to himself.

Once he's out, Porthos grasps a loose fitting pair of sweatpants and one of the baggier sweaters he's got, wandering out to watch Aramis with the potatoes for a long, quiet moment, not giving away that he's standing there watching him. Not until he wanders behind him to wrap his arms around Aramis and hold onto him possessively, hugging him so tightly it aches, because he's so damn lucky.

"Your turn," he murmurs, tugging the sleeves over his hands.

Aramis leans into him, comfortable even when Porthos squeezes his ribs near to breaking. Instead of pulling away, he turns his head to nose at Porthos' cheek, sighing. "But you are so nice and clean smelling," he laments. "And warm and your sweater is fuzzy." It is a very hard position to give up.

"And you could be all of those things if you cleaned up. The water's already running hot," he promises, pressing an absent kiss to Aramis' neck. "Go on. Go get clean so we can make dinner and we can think up how on earth we tell the news to Athos."

Aramis gives a shameless whine, but he peels himself away from Porthos, tossing the blanket across the couch well before he's disappeared through the bedroom door. He showers quickly, running his fingers over the new bruises Porthos' fingertips have made, and is sure to select one of his shorter sweaters to pull on with a pair of soft pajama pants. It will certainly ride up and show them off.

"Now then," he says, returning to the kitchen with a stretch. "Where do you want me?"

Porthos' gaze slips to that stretch, watching Aramis show off that bit of distracting, distracting skin. He bites his lower lip and leans over to touch him, dragging him flush against him again, even though he knows he'll have to let go to do his work. "Probably out of the kitchen," he laments, dragging his apron over his head. "Otherwise we'll never eat."

Aramis sighs, but he complies, drifting towards the table to sit down. The surrogacy book and a number of other documents are already there, and he pulls them to him.

"I'd rather be hungry and sniff at you some more," he tells Porthos, but Aramis opens up the book. "Are we really to tell Athos tonight?"

"You really think either of us is going to be able to keep this a secret?" Porthos asks, starting to break down the duck with the knife. "He's going to figure it out soon enough, so better that we tell him," he reasons, smiling distractedly as he thinks about those bruises on Aramis' hips again.

"True enough," Aramis murmurs, skimming his fingers over the pages. "Kinder to tell him all at once. He must know this day is imminent - but I cannot help feeling it will be a shock. One more step towards our new reality, Athos dragged in our wake."

"Yeah," Porthos agrees, his single word a touch troubled. He doesn't mean to upset Athos, but he also doesn't want to stop their life because of those fears, especially when Porthos has conquered his own over time. "We'll just have to work to make sure he understands we still love him just as much and that there's time to adjust."

"He still struggles at times to believe we love him now," replies Aramis. "It will be like romancing him all over again. Decadent meals, gifts of finery, constant tumbles in the bedroom." It sounds quite heavenly, in fact.

"However shall we manage?"

Porthos lifts up one of the duck's legs pointedly, as if to remind him of one of the things he's currently doing to woo Athos into submission. "I feel like you'll figure it out," he deadpans, smirking playfully right after. "I'll enjoy it to take my mind off other things."

"Sex is a cure for a good many ailments," says Aramis solemnly. "A good many." And as unhealthily as he has embraced it in the past, he has every confidence that it is what they all truly need now to remain close with one another.

"Fuck the scowl right off his face," mutters Aramis with dedication.

That earns a bark of amused laughter from Porthos because it's a damn good suggestion, but it's also one that has him genuinely amused. "Well, you've fucked the brains out of me more than once," he replies, basting the duck with maple and syrups to give it a crispy, sticky coat. "I don't think you'll struggle there."

"Your brains are easy to addle," Aramis tells him with a smirk, reaching an arm behind himself for another gratuitous stretch of limbs. "I could put my mouth on no less than ten locations on your body right now and dinner would be lost all over again."

Porthos gives him a glare that isn't very heated, knowing that what Aramis is saying is fairly close to truth, after all. "That's only because you know me so very well," he accuses, with a touch of sulk in his voice. "And then you wouldn't have any dinner. No one wants that."

"And yet my mouth would not be empty," says Aramis with a serene smile, lifting himself from the table to search out wine, which Athos will certainly be needing later. He pours them each a glass for now, pushing Porthos' near his elbow.

"And I do know you very well," he agrees. "As you know me."

Porthos glances over at Aramis as he finishes with the duck, leaning over expectantly for a kiss, sipping at the wine as he does. "I've known you for six years. You're my best friend," he reminds him. "Even before all this. Now I know what people are talking about when they say they married their best friend."

Aramis smiles for that, soft and a little dopey as he leans in for another kiss. "It is a beautiful thought," he agrees, "And a reality I am honored to be a part of. Now." He pulls away lest he molest Porthos again. "Can't I do something? I've stood next to you for whole minutes now without any attempt to ravish you."

"Closer to more years, actually," he says, after the kiss, but it's an absent stray thought as he tugs on his sweater-sleeves to cover him a touch more as he leans into another kiss, grinning as he stares at him adoringly. "You can help slice potatoes? Or you can sit and drink wine and pick music for us to listen to."

"I will do all three," Aramis decides, bringing his wine over to the potatoes. "Shall I choose something classical?" he asks, face twisted for the notion that the music they heard at court is now archaic. Timeless, more like. "There is a bit of music I like," he adds suddenly, "Named for a gun. I don't know why, there are no songs about revolvers on the album, but it is still enjoyable. By some people named for insects."

"Mm, I like the romantic ones," Porthos admits with a dopey grin on his face, leaning his hip against Aramis' to give himself a stable place to rest now that he's so comfortable. "Jazz, with classical, but always with women with beautiful deep voices singing," he murmurs, but he squints as he tries to figure out what Aramis is talking about.

"I don't know that one. Find it?"