du_vallon | (no subject)

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It's been a profitable day for him. Porthos has been quick with his hands and has managed to get himself a good helping of trinkets, money, and other possessions. After making his drop offs at the shelters and to the kids on the street he watches out for, he grabs the bottle of wine he'd "freed" from one of the wealthy penthouse owners and heads up to visit Mssr de la Fère. He's been robbing him a little lightly this week, only taking a cufflink pair from him in the streets along with some of his bills.

He hasn't even robbed his actual flat this week. It's practically a reason to visit (and not just because he misses the man and he enjoys the frustrated and pretty look on his face every time he actually gets close enough to rob him). Porthos isn't going to think too long about why he enjoys riling Athos so much, though he knows in his heart why.

With a good bottle of red, he adjusts his shirt (almost as tight as his jeans, even if that's an impossibility) and knocks on his door, ducking to check that his new diamond stud earrings glimmers as best as it can in the light.

"Delivery!" he announces, filled with gruff amusement.

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Athos isn’t having a very good day - but then, he hasn’t had a good day in quite some time. Only the need for some income beyond the meager sum automatically granted him gets him out of bed at all. He spends most of hours in the dusty back room of a high-end antiques shop; the owner employs him to assess his wares. Being ‘historical,’ as the gentleman (to use the term broadly) puts it, has this minuscule amount of value. But it is a demeaning business, full of cheats and grubby businessmen, and retreating from that disgusting world fills the man once called the Comte de la Fere with relief.

That is, until he closes the door behind him, and the silence of his apartment engulfs him. Athos hates Darrow. He hates its rude and tasteless people, its pollution, its oppressive heat, its shining, steel buildings that blind him with the way they reflect light. But most of all he hates this loneliness that settles over him when he shuts away that mess and that noise. Athos thought he understood loneliness, thought a lifetime of it had rendered him immune, but now he craves some glimmer of companionship, some person to fill the void and quiet his own thoughts. He would accept the company of Remy, the blacksmith who has made every sword Athos has ever owned, or Guillaume, his long-trusted groom. The children, even, might be a welcome distraction, as little as he ever knows what to say to them. Even Katharine, the wife to whom he barely spoke before being swept away to this strange world, could provide some small amount of human warmth.

Athos loosens his tie and tries to remove his cufflinks - only to find that somewhere between the antiques dealer and his apartment, they have gone missing. He curses, wondering where they might have fallen, and if it is worth going in search of them. Suspicious now, he checks his wallet. Yes, it is just as he suspected: though the credit card and identification remain, the contents of his billfold have disappeared. Not again.

On cue, he hears a knock at the door.

He isn’t surprised to discover Porthos waiting for him on the other side. Pressing his lips into a thin line, he stares the man down. Porthos is one of the few connections he has to the world he once knew (however distantly) and a constant, maddening thorn in his side. ”You."

Porthos leans in a lazy sprawl against the doorway, his gaze fixated on the handsome and irritable man himself. "Me," he agrees as he tips the bottle of red towards the Comte so he can see the label. "Only caveat is, you have to drink it with me," he insists. "Besides, I brought you a shiny bauble." It's definitely not the cufflinks, which have been sold to get a few meals for the kids, but he thinks that Athos might appreciate the little volumes of poetry he'd picked up for a bargain at the market.

And besides, if he doesn't, there's always the wine to enjoy.

"Don't frown so, it makes you so handsome," he flirts outrageously, because he knows how it riles him.

Athos could shut the door the in man’s face. He should, certainly. Porthos is a bottom-dweller, a thief, a deviant. He insists on plaguing Athos at every turn, and would be in prison if Athos trusted the city’s authorities even the smallest bit.

But Porthos offers the smallest bit of home, a chance to speak French, and a way to pass the time. Athos wants the wine, too, which looks promising. He doesn’t slam the door, not quite yet.

“Do you have my cufflinks?” he asks.

"No," Porthos is happy to reply with absolute honesty, not lying in the least. He had the cufflinks, but they're gone now. He fishes out the little books from his pocket and waves them in Athos' face. "I've got these for you, though," he shares. "They're little prayer pamphlets or something from our time. Or some sort of thesis, thought you might enjoy it."

He takes the lack of the door slamming as invitation to push inside, sprawling on the couch as he starts to work the bottle of wine open. "I see you've done plenty with the place," he notes sarcastically, since it hasn't changed at all since he'd last been here.

Athos watches with unconcealed disgust as Porthos makes himself comfortable. Oh, he knows exactly what the man means about the cufflinks. They are gone for good. If Athos cared about any of his things here, he might have been angrier, for the cufflinks had been rather expensive. As it is, he is more annoyed with Porthos’ audacity.

His gaze flickers to the little book, but he remains unimpressed. Porthos’ description makes no sense, and Athos wonders if the man can even read. “Are you going to gnaw the bottle open?” he wonders aloud, ignoring the quip about the decor.

Porthos works the wax open and digs out a little swiss army knife from his pocket -- a modern little invention that's come in handy -- as he rolls his eyes pointedly at Athos, cutting the wax and working out the cork with the bottle opener portion of it. "Just because you prefer to live back in our time doesn't mean I have to," he says, beckoning towards himself.

"Bring some glasses," he coaxes, settling the little pamphlet books on the table. He thinks it's some sort of manifesto from a political or religious leader, but the Latin's got him all mixed up.

Athos has two choices: he can either refuse on principle and allow the man to lounge on his sofa, in his apartment, drinking wine and taunting him, or he can swallow his pride, acquiesce, and at least drink a glass of wine for his pains. God knows, Athos has his pride, but he is practical, too - and thirsty. He turns on his heels and stalks to the kitchen to fetch the glasses.

When he returns, he snatches the wine from Porthos and pours himself a generous portion. “I’m surprised you don’t drink it straight from the bottle. Practicing your manners?"

Porthos sort of enjoys all the pushing he gets from Athos. The man has never physically harmed him, and he can deal with the sharp barbs of Athos' words. "And make you watch my mouth around the neck of the bottle, sucking, licking..."

He grins up at Athos as he takes the second glass of wine that he has to pour himself. "Do you want me to do that instead?"

Athos immediately regrets his indulgence. The wine isn’t worth this abuse, no matter how good it is. “Get out,” he says icily. “I will not stand for your filth in my home."

Porthos rolls his eyes, but relents as he settles back into the sofa, not budging in the slightest. He knows Athos can't move him either, having grown up a big-shouldered brawler in the Court. "Fine, I'll behave and I won't flirt with you, no matter how I enjoy it," he sighs. "Read your book. Tell me if it's worth anything."

“I should report you to the police.” Athos scoffs and stalks away, knowing that he could not throw Porthos bodily from his apartment, and that the authorities would probably do little to get him out of there. He snatches up the little pamphlet and flips through it. It has been printed and bound with twine, and the pages are delicate, but the ink is well-preserved. For a few moments he frowns, skimming the pages.

“I don’t recognize the author,” he says, almost as if he was speaking to any client, and not this constant thorn in his side. “But it might be of some value to a specialty collector of ecclesiastical writing. Is this why you’re here?"

Porthos gives Athos a look that says that if he were to do that, he'd have done it already. That, and he'd figure a way out of it what with the fancy lawyer he's been bribing and blackmailing to help keep him out of trouble.

"It's not for value," is Porthos' grunt, because these papers don't mean a lick as far as that goes. "I just thought maybe you might like it." And, not that he says it, but he sort of likes trying to see Athos smile. If he can be the cause? Even better.

Athos raises his eyes from the book, lips parting slightly in surprise. When was the last time someone had gifted him something, anything? Certainly before Darrow, and likely some time before that. These days, he does not often buy himself luxuries, either, not even the books he has always been fond of. Now, he examines the book with new eyes, appreciating the color of the soft leather color, the smell of the pages, the rhythm of the Latin.

He swallows, unsure what to think. Athos hasn’t been given many reasons to trust Porthos, and despite the simplicity of this gestures, he senses a catch. “Why?"

Porthos wonders what happened to Athos to make him so hesitant to accept gifts like this in his life. "I like you," is his reply. "You're fun to steal from because you always have more and besides, I like watching your face when I give you things."

And now they're bordering in the place where it's awkward because Athos' proper social cues means he doesn't want to hear this. "Don't worry. I know all about your delicate sensibilities. And besides, I've got other crops to till, so to speak." Like that other fancy Parisian that's been around, though he never looks half as huffy when Porthos thieves from him.

Making a dismissive sound, Athos looks down at his hands where they hold the book, a slight flush coloring his cheeks. He isn’t shocked by the idea of the man’s flirtation – he has been with men before, and is aware of his predilections, even if he would never dare speak of it – and he expects coarseness from a man like Porthos, even if he hates it. But this gesture of friendship does not so easily fit his expectations, and he finds himself unmoored by their conversation.

“You have a strange way of showing it,” he says, words a little clipped.

"Would you feel better if I took you out on a tour and showed you where the money goes?" Porthos wonders. "I'd stop stealing from you if you could guarantee me that you put an equal portion to those places." He wouldn't stop stealing in general because it's fun and he's doing it for a purpose, but he'd stop taking specifically from Athos.

He lets his gaze rove over him, slowly. "Besides, how else would I get you all huffy and pretty if not my thieving?"

“What?” The momentary illusion that he might have found someone who cares about his wellbeing, however triflingly, vanishes. Porthos cares about his own base interests, and Athos’ purse – nothing more.

Athos purses his lips. Does Porthos really think it generous to suggest Athos use his money in any way he insists? “Do you make such demands of all your friends?” he deadpans. “Take your book. I don’t want your gifts, or your company.”

Katherine often calls him foolish and softhearted. She is probably right, he thinks. Next time Porthos steals from him, he will contact the authorities.

Porthos, however, doesn't move. He gives Athos a curious look and leans forward to challenge him. "So where would you rather spend it? On fripperies and fineries? You won't let me at least show you why I do what I do? The people I support with it?"

"And the book is a present for you, just like the wine." Just like the other gifts he's been leaving for him, to show his interest.

“To what fripperies do you refer?” The sofa Porthos sits upon is the same one that came with the apartment, the glasses they drink out of were here when Athos arrived. The things Athos does purchase – clothes, when he needs them, wine, the occasional book – are of a superior quality, but by and large, he spends his small income on very little beyond the necessities. He isn’t sure he could if he wanted to, for he is no longer the rich man he once was.

Even if that were not the case, Porthos has no right to judge him. “You do what you do because you are a thief.”

"Have been since I was five," he agrees, thinking back to when he'd been abandoned. Still, he likes to think that he's turned out better than Charon, who abandoned them, and cares more than the rest. Even here, he might be a thief, but it's not to serve himself totally. He just keeps enough to get by. "And you have to admit, you dress nicely. You carry yourself nicely. If not fripperies, what do you spend your money on?"

“That is none of your business.” Athos’ expression goes icy. How had he ever fooled himself into thinking that Porthos could ever be something nearing a friend? The man clearly cares not a whit for Athos, and Athos certainly has no reason to care for him. What sort of friend would invade his home, and steal his things, and then cast moral judgment on his life? Athos would prefer to be cruel than deluded and used.

“I am finished with this conversation. Get out, mongrel.”

Porthos' face goes dark when the namecalling starts, rising up from his seat and looming as tall as he can in order to give Athos a displeased look. He likes the man, sure, but not enough to stand being called such rude and awful things. "You should be kinder," he informs him. "Or it won't just be your pockets that get damaged in the streets."

It's as much a threat as he offers anyone, because he might be swift with his fingers, but when he needs to strike, he can do that too.

Athos' jaw tightens and he lifts his chin, refusing to be intimidated. "And you should not invade a man's home. You have overstayed your welcome, understand?"

Porthos gives him a cool look. "Same goes for you when you're walking in my part of town, then, if I'm such a mongrel to you." He looks him up and down, scoffing. "Shame. I could've made you see stars, if you'd let me."

Athos swallows hard, resisting the shudder that goes through him as they stand so close. A terribly long time has passed since anyone touched him with passion, and he cannot deny that he has been tempted. But he will not pay in humiliation, and that is all that Porthos has offered - through theft, and mockery, and now this attempt to dictate what he should do with his own life. “Your loss,” he says tartly. “Get out."

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