du_vallon | (no subject)

(no subject)

Out of habit, Porthos tends to rise fairly early in the morning. It's a leftover thing from when he'd been new to the Musketeers and felt like he had something to prove. He's never really had to weigh that against sleeping in a bed with someone because he's never been in a place where he needs to worry about another person. Now, though, since he's had the wings, he hasn't spent more than two or three nights outside of this bed and for the most part, Aramis is there, too. This morning, he rises before Aramis, like the rest and lingers in bed.

The warmth of it, the peace, and the security are all things he didn't have for the majority of his life and he's trying not to take any of it for granted. Porthos sleepily glances over to Aramis, kisses his cheek, and stretches as he gets up, plucking a t-shirt from the chair and tugging it on over his boxers before he heads for the kitchen.

He thinks that he feels like a treat. Definitely something cooking while he does morning stretches. After the incident at the yoga studio, he'd kept his promise and only works out in the flat, and it's while bacon, eggs, and pancakes are sizzling on the grill that he runs through the stretches, going through most of the usual before settling on the carpet to run through Sphinx, then a Standing Forward Bend, and lastly a Bow pose when he hears the rustling of sheets.

Breakfast is cooling and once Aramis is awake, Porthos has plans to bring it into bed, the way he'd always heard stories about in the Court -- of what life must be like for the nobility and the rich and the loved.

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Aramis comes to slowly, turning onto his back on the bed to kick his feet to the base of the sheets, arms over his head for a stretch that feels like heaven. The stitches are out at long last, the wound that's plagued him a pink line, tender but whole, and Aramis scratches at it as he moves back onto his stomach, this time with his head facing out the door.

"Oh dear," he calls in a sleepworn voice as he watches Porthos bend himself in a pose that has all his limbs in the air. "What is that one called?"

Porthos finishes up with the pose, his torso expanding as he stretches upwards with his eyes to the ceiling before he clambers to his feet, curling his toes into the carpet as he grins at Aramis and feeling a bit breathless, between the exercise and seeing Aramis so sleep-addled and beautiful. Porthos grins at him and presses his palms against the frame of the door as he leans into the bedroom.

"Bow," he forms this lips around the word, smirking before pushing his shirt to scratch the side of his torso before he pads his way into the kitchen to turn the heat off completely, settling breakfast on a plate. "Sure you're ready to be awake, chou? If you want to go back to sleep, I've got plenty of poses I can run through."

"As I recall, many of those poses get the blood going," replies Aramis, "And I do mean mine, so I believe I'll stay awake." Sitting up, he gathers the sheets around his waist, leaning forward as the scent of fresh breakfast in the air intensifies. "Oh, do tell me you're bringing that in here."

Porthos licks at a bit of syrup from his thumb as he balances the plate and cutlery in his hand, crawling right into Aramis' lap so he can comfortably straddle him, settling back with the plate between them so Aramis can pick off it as he'd like. "Figured you might enjoy some breakfast in bed. You've earned it, what with not picking at your stitches or running headfirst into danger," Porthos says with a nod of his head, leaning forward to kiss Aramis before he clasps his shoulder to push out of his lap, leaving the breakfast there.

He makes sure he's right in Aramis' vision as he goes back to his work, slipping into Warrior with his hands angled towards the sky, back arched gracefully.

Aramis hums, biting happily into a long strip of bacon as he watches Porthos. "Breakfast and bed, two glorious things that have long deserved to go together," he says, head cocked to enjoy Porthos. "This one does wonderful things for your backside."

Porthos angles his head down enough to grin at Aramis, heart racing as he shifts to standing again and wraps his arms around his knees, body bent in half as it strains and pulls on muscles that he slept poorly on all night. "There's more in the kitchen," he says, voice muffled by his knees. "But it's mine." Cheek to knee, he peers at Aramis and grins at the tiny bit of bacon at the corner of his lips. "You been looking at my backside?"

"In those trousers?" asks Aramis, licking the bacon from his lips, "I don't believe I'll ever stop." He grins, gaze shifting to the very spot in question. "How many more must you run through before you join me?"

Porthos settles on his feet, plucking the tight trousers as if showing them off. He takes two strides closer to the bed and picks up the plate so he can settle back into his comfortable straddle of Aramis' lap, the sheets a bundled mess between them. Before he gives the plate back, he steals two pieces of bacon and half a pancake, appetite intense given the morning workout. "You miss me or something?" he taunts, but it's gentle and fond.

He leans in to kiss Aramis once he's swallowed the last of his food, licking up a morsel of syrup that's stubbornly clinging to Aramis' lower lip.

Aramis squawks faintly for the stolen bacon, but resolves quite quickly to steal Porthos' when the man goes for his own plate. "Beast," he says, following Porthos' lips when he pulls back. "Mm. You taste sweet."

Porthos' grin is subdued by how he leans in for languid, slow kisses, eyes falling shut as he moves his free hand up to cup Aramis' cheek, heart hammering against his chest as other parts of him start to wake up and take notice. "Syrup and orange juice," is his soft reply. "Might have snacked a bit while I cooked." He threads his fingers into the hair at the nape of Aramis' neck to deepen his kisses a bit more, plate forgotten on the covers at his side.

"Why divide labor when one may do two things at once?" Aramis smiles against his mouth, licking at the corner in search of more sweet. "And now you are all stretched and limber."

Aramis presses his nose to Porthos' throat, inhaling the faint tang of clean sweat with pleasure. "A fine use of your morning, indeed. How are you to be rewarded?"

Porthos' answering grin is filled with delight, not having done this for a reward, but it's hardly as if he's going to say no to one now that it's been offered to him. He shifts his hips forward, just a little, just enough to give him the chance to move some of the blankets. "I only did it to be nice," he remarks, mock-innocent as he runs his hands slowly up and down Aramis' neck. "I'm told reliably that breakfast in bed is something people do for their ... people."

He's not sure what the right word is for Aramis, so people is what it'll be.

Aramis' answering smile is warm, his hands fitting comfortably at Porthos' waist. "People, am I?" he asks with pleasure. He's been a brother to him for years, a lover for far shorter, but to be people. It is different, somehow.

"I like that very much indeed," he says, opening his mouth against Porthos' throat.

When he shifts, Aramis' fingers ruck up the tank top he's wearing slightly, dark fabric moved by his fingers, and Porthos tips his head away so he can expose his throat to Aramis (something Porthos won't do in kind because the minute his lips brush over the pink scars, his mood gets more cross than ever before). "I can give you a different name if you want it, only I'm not sure what to call you," Porthos admits, leaning over for a piece of bacon that he offers out to Aramis before nipping at the end of it, himself.

Aramis bites at the other end, considering Porthos as he chews the savory morsel down. "There is no word for us at home, I suppose," he decides after a moment. "If we search modernity for one...do you know they call it boyfriend here?" Aramis sniffs. "A juvenile word, for a beautiful experience."

Porthos makes a face at the notion of calling Aramis something like that, which sounds like something he'd have called Flea and Charon when they were little. "I don't like that," he says, rocking back to his haunches in order to wander into the kitchen to fetch the other plate of food, leaning his hip against the door as he looks at Aramis in bed and tries to think of a better word.

He shakes his head. "I got nothing," he admits. "My equal? You weren't that before, always a bit better," he admits, the old social system having been pressed into his mind. "Fellow Musketeer seems a bit shy of the truth."

"Better," Aramis repeats, something stormy flicking across his expression before it hardens. Pushing away the sheets, he stands, crossing the room to Porthos. "I have never been better, I could not name even one man to be your better, and I never want to hear otherwise pass your lips ever again."

Squaring his shoulders, Aramis looks very nearly ready to duel Porthos on the spot. "Say you agree."

Porthos blinks, stunned for Aramis' sudden insistence. He's not sure what to do with it, sure he could argue and bicker about it because if he's better, then why had he been treated the way he was? "Fine," he agrees, stunned and a bit speechless for it. "I suppose I agree?" He shrugs, not sure what the problem is.

It is not at all the vehemence Aramis requires - if he could, he would go back in time and run through each and every person that could make the man before him feel so small - but it is a start.

"If you could see yourself as I do," he says, shaking his head. "I will make you believe it," Aramis promises, seizing Porthos' hand to press a kiss to his knuckles, folding that hand against his heart after. "I love you. You believe that much, do you not?"

Porthos' heart beats faster for the motion, having made romantic overtures like this, but never having been on the receiving end of them. He sets his plate of food (now cold) on the top of the dresser and crowds into Aramis' personal space. "My own," he says, out of nowhere. He's jumped back, leaping past Aramis' firm insistence and his own doubt about society. "That's what you are to me. My own," he says firmly.

"I believe you, Aramis, I do, but you can't tell me that you and I in a room together evoke the same reaction," he says heatedly. "Bonnaire would've plucked me up from a market," he growls, "and used me as a commodity, given the right meeting place. I think, sometimes, of what would have happened if I had gone with him." Eyes wide, he is sure of this. "You're better, Aramis, because you're luckier to have been born something more than a ill-thought of dark orphan." He pries his hand from Aramis' in order to press in, flush against Aramis. "And I love you for thinking better of me," he says. "And I hope this place is better to me, but Paris wasn't. Not always. Not often."

"No land is perfect," hisses Aramis in answer, "And this is not Paris. Luck is not merit, nor is it anything I believe in. A man makes his own worth, forges his own path, and none have striven harder than you."

Aramis breathes in deep through his nose, but it does nothing to stay his sudden swell of temper. As if ever the case, a threat to Porthos' happiness is enough to undo his every reserve, and Aramis growls into what space lies between them. "Birth is not better. What matters is what a man does with his life, and you have risen above every hardship. Your strength does not lie solely in your solid form. It's here."

Aramis jabs at Porthos' chest. "I know none stronger."

Aramis' passion is infectious and charismatic and thought Porthos has never thought himself less (society always did that for him), Aramis has him convinced that every word he speaks is true. Porthos clasps Aramis' face with both hands and pushes him aggressively forward, lips on Aramis' lips and pushing him in the direction of the bed, sliding his hand down to grab at Aramis' arse to manhandle him closer, a bit more forward than usual, but Aramis' words have got him going. "I love you," he growls out those three easy words, pushing Aramis onto the bed so he can shed his tank top and climb firmly on top of him, straddling his waist.

Aramis lands in a sprawl, but opens his arms and spreads his legs in the moment after, and happy "There," on his lips, for he loves nothing better than a Porthos suffused with all the confidence he has earned.

"Do not doubt it," he says, gripping Porthos through his smallclothes. "I never have. Not even for a moment."

"You shouldn't, not when I'm yours," Porthos says sharply, feeling more possessive and firm about it than he has in ages. His hands slide over Aramis' body, breathless as he thinks about all the other people Aramis might be saying such things to and it strikes him with a sudden bolt of anger that makes him grasp Aramis by the shoulders so hard his fingertips might make bruises as he leans down to kiss him all the harder.

He rolls them so he's on the bottom, feeling ready to give up his control and he lets it bleed out of him, relaxing with his back to the bed and limbs all stretched out.

Aramis groans for the sudden, painful dig of Porthos' fingers, dizzy and breathless when he finds himself suddenly atop the other man.

"Is this what you want?" he asks, gathering Porthos' wide wrists in his hands and pulling them over his head. "Do you want me to show you?"