du_vallon | (no subject)

(no subject)

Something's been off since he went to the gym the other day. He'd done a ridiculous number of weights, but only because he'd felt like he could. Once he'd left, it'd only gotten worse, and now it's twinging and pinching him to the point that he's making faces. It's right around that awful wound from the axe, that deep buried thing that still aches in the rain.

A few days later, he accepts that he needs to ask for some help. He still sulks about it for a while and after dinner, he rubs sheepishly at the muscle in question before taking the salve he'd bought from Hild in order to find Aramis.

"I need your help," he says, gnawing on his lower lip.

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Aramis waits out the tumult of Porthos' reaction with all the patience of a man riding a bucking horse, resuming his work when Porthos is still again. "That is for people who haven't paraded about with a strain for so long that they've aggravated the nerve," he tells him, reaching for the salve. Perhaps it will further loosen Porthos' shoulder.

"What were you lifting, bloody kettlebells filled with lead?"

"I moved to higher weights and did something they called crossfit," Porthos shares, which had required him to do a great deal of work in a short amount of time. Grimacing, he cranes his neck so he can peer up at Aramis. "Normally, when it aches like this, I take a day off and then it's fine," he insists.

"You are getting older, Porthos," says Aramis, fondness creeping into his voice as he gently guides Porthos' head back down so he doesn't further strain himself. "Handsomer every day, yes, but older, too, and with that will come a longer recovery time."

Porthos grumbles at the thought of getting older, but Aramis is right. He doesn't recover as easily as he used to, which is something that he's been struggling to get used to. "When the baby comes, I don't think I'll have much time to go work out," he admits, hissing when his head is pushed back. "You won't mind if I round out, will you?"

"Not at all," says Aramis, even if he thinks Porthos won't as much as he expects. Caring for a baby is hard work, and Porthos is already so active - even without a gym, he'll be getting plenty of exercise.

"We will get one of their strollers with the wheels meant for running," he continues. "Our daughter will love it."

"Are you going to come with us? Become a pair of jogging husbands?" he imagines he'll still find a way to strain his body, but at least he'll get to see Aramis in all his glowing, sweaty glory. That said, he'll also have to jealously fend off all those who realize what he's got. "I might like that," he muses. "And lifting up our petit Ana will be weights, enough."

"And we'll want to carry her everywhere," Aramis agrees. "Not a moment's respite. Not unless we manage to sneak her into Athos' arms from time to time."

Aramis grins at the thought of it, still working carefully at Porthos' shoulder. "We'll have to have a camera going the first time we tell him we're having a long weekend and he has to watch the baby."

"Our wedding anniversary is going to be only two months after she's born," Porthos does point out, which means Athos might be facing that fear sooner than expected. Porthos cranes his head to the other side, the pain starting to subside the more that Aramis works at him. "You think he's come around? That he'd be willing to watch after our baby even though he's not sure of things himself?"

He wants to think so, but he still remembers too many conversations fraught with tension and walking on eggshells.

"No," replies Aramis without a second thought, "Which is why we will sneak into his rooms while he is sleeping and leave Ana with all her supplies and a note. By the time she wakes and her cries wake him, we'll be safely removed."

Porthos barks out a fond laugh as he imagines Athos waking up to a screaming baby, which is probably not too far off from how he feels on any day when he wakes up after drinking too much. "He'll hate us for it," he announces with a smirk on his face, which is to say that he loves the plan. "We can make it up to him when we return."

"You see?" chuckles Aramis, massaging the muscles around the sorest now, "You have stumbled onto a truth by which I've lived my whole life - it is better to ask forgiveness than permission."

He sits back. "How is your shoulder?"

"Better," he admits, thinking it half a miracle that it feels as good as it does. After all, earlier today, he'd thought that maybe he'd be broken permanently. Shifting a little, he gives Aramis a cock of his brow. "You feel like maybe rubbing anything else while you've got your hands all slick?"

He can't help the lurid tone in his voice, seeing as he thinks Aramis brings it out of him practically more than anyone else.

Aramis cocks a brow right back. "Oh?" He can't say he hasn't been expecting this, but there's no chance of him rubbing this foul smelling ointment on Porthos' privates. "I'm beginning to think the romance has gone out of our marriage," he observes.

"What's not romantic about this?" Porthos demands defensively, thinking that he's being plenty romantic, what with the providing oil and the lying down and the being shirtless. "Is it just because I didn't cook you dinner before you got me flat?"

He makes to lever himself upwards and off the couch, "I could still do, if you were hungry or saw fit to complain more about romance."

Aramis does not dignify Porthos' question with a response, instead disengaging himself to stand with a sigh. "Perhaps I do," he says, feeling stubborn and a little curious, even, to discover what Porthos thinks is romantic. "I'm quite comfortable talking for hours on any subject, so don't provoke me."

"I like hearing you talk," is Porthos' low, flirty response. Now that he feels better, he finds he can slide into a sitting position and close the distance between them with ease, wrapping his arms around Aramis' waist to help himself to a closer cuddle. "Go on. Pick a subject, chou."

Aramis settles his hands on Porthos' shoulders. "Is this what you mean by romance?" he asks. "I suppose it is a compliment at least. Very well, what would you like to hear about?"

Aramis raises both brows. "Something nice like your arse, I imagine."

Porthos tips his head to the side to give Aramis a wearying look, because while he would love to sit back and talk about his arse all day, he really does mean that he likes hearing Aramis talk and not just about Porthos' body. "About anything you love," he clarifies. "Doesn't have to be my perfect body."

Aramis hums. "It would be redundant," he agrees, "Given how often I remark on it already. Very well then, I will speak on my favorite dessert you make, those little chocolate cakes with the melted chocolate inside, how do you call them?"

Aramis' nose scrunches, but then his expression clears with a smile. "Lava Cakes. I like them especially when you swirl the caramel on top."

"It works best when there's just a touch of sea salt on top of it," he shares knowingly with a touch of a smug look on his face, grinning to be praised so. He rubs at his shoulder as he curls in to kiss that scrunch of Aramis' nose softly, his eyes sparkling with joy.

"What am I gonna talk about, then? Since we're being so complimentary."

"Can you think of nothing?" laughs Aramis, sinking his fingers into Porthos' curls. "Surely I have one virtue that is not related to the bedroom, or the kitchen or bath or floor or wherever else we may ravish one another."

Porthos tips his head to one side to give Aramis a look that says he knows better than to assume Porthos has nothing to say about his virtues. "Your generosity of spirit," he says, firmly. "You've always got a spot in your heart for those that others might have abandoned. And you care with all your heart, offering actions or kind words or all your soul."

"It's what you did with me, isn't it? And others," he says, thinking of Agnes and of all the people over the years that Aramis had taken under his wing.

Aramis' smile warms, even going a touch bashful near the end there. "That was touching, Porthos," he says, "Truly. But I'm not certain I pursued you simply out of the goodness of my heart. I wanted to be around you because you made me happy, and in a way so few others had done."

"Yeah? How'd I do that?" he challenges, because while he might have heard this before, he never tires of hearing what he means to Aramis. It means so much to him, especially when for a very long time, he hadn't meant anything near important to anyone. "What'd I do to win the great Aramis' heart," is his prodding, smug poke.

"You allow me to be entirely myself," Aramis replies. "Faults and all. You even encourage my more enjoyable ones," he says, thinking of their many foolish, but glorious adventures. "And these," Aramis adds, touching his thumbs to Porthos' dimples. "This sweet smile that I will never tire of." It still astounds Aramis that anyone can look away.