du_vallon | (no subject)

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After he's helped to get d'Artagnan settled away in the city, both allowing him to see the flat and then turning him loose on Darrow again, Porthos had made his way home. Aramis isn't there yet, but Porthos takes his time wandering their place and setting up enough candles that he doesn't have to turn any of the lights on. Maybe it's d'Artagnan's arrival, but he's reminded of how much Aramis didn't like the lights to begin with. He pours a few glasses of wine while he plays something on the player (or it is radio? Jim had explained, but Porthos hadn't paid much attention).

Tugging off his doublet and shirt, Porthos happily exchanges his old clothes for something more comfortable in a pair of black trousers and a t-shirt that shows a small peek of his tattoo as he finishes up with a bit of tidying around the place, easing Athos out of the way when he needs to be.

He's pleased beyond belief that d'Artagnan is there, but it does bring up the worrying question -- do they tell him? And if they do, how? Porthos had sort of given up hope of anyone else turning up and while it isn't as nervewracking as Athos, it's more somehow. Because, after all, what if d'Artagnan decides he hates them for it?

Porthos tries to put that out of mind as he finishes his first glass of red wine, pouring his second as he lights a few more candles with the setting sun.

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"Porthos! You won't believe who I've seen!" Aramis calls as he throws himself at their door, blinking into the darkness that descends quite suddenly on his arrival. It takes a moment to realize that the wind kicked up by the force of his entry has blown out several candles, something they've used quite sparingly since Porthos installed the dimmer switch.

"Porthos?" Aramis calls again, finally locating his silhouette as his eyes adjust. "What's all this?"

Porthos bites out a curse under his breath as he lights the match again and relights the candles that Aramis has extinguished, moving them out of the way. "You saw d'Artagnan," he says, taking a bit of relish in ruining Aramis' little surprise as he fixes up the last of the candles so that the room is well-lit again, collecting several like a torch. "He sort of reminded me of when we first got here," he admits, gesturing around the room. "Call it a present to your sensitive eyes," he teases with a smirk. "Just don't put them out again, it's too much work relighting them all," he grumbles, lifting up the glass of wine so Aramis can see it's waiting for him.

"Had I known to expect them," Aramis assures him with a slight bow, "I would have taken better care." He comes forward to take the glass, but he doesn't drink, laying a hand on Porthos' shoulder that serves to settle himself as much as anything else. "I can't believe he's here. And after all this time!"

Porthos shakes his head fondly at the bow, but the roll of his eyes is minor, at most. "He didn't believe me when I told him it's been about six months since I last saw him," he admits, easing forward so that Aramis can rest his hand easily on his shoulder. "He's two doors down from me upstairs, you know," he says, with a glance upwards. "I got him settled away, but I didn't think that'd last very long. Clearly not, seeing as you stumbled across him, too," he says with a chuffed laugh.

He peers past Aramis' shoulder, a bit wary. "He's not with you, is he? Waiting outside or something?"

"No," replies Aramis, "I thought it best to give him a moment alone to come to terms with his new situation." He is eternally grateful to have arrived here with Porthos, but Aramis understands that D'Artagnan is his own man, and processes things differently.

"Upstairs, then," he adds, looking upwards. "How long before he knocks on your door, only to discover you don't actually live there, I wonder?"

"Good," he murmurs, when Aramis relieves the tension building in Porthos with a single word. He waits for Aramis to finish speaking (but only barely) before he leans in for a greeting kiss, licking Aramis' lower lip as he tries to absorb that little bit of available wine. When he backs away, he makes his way to his glass of wine near the chaise, sitting down and relaxing back. "Maybe we need some sort of bell down here that rings when upstairs does," he says.

"In case someone comes calling," he says, thinking of d'Artagnan. "I already told him it's not as if people have to live in the places they're given." He shrugs. "Maybe he won't think overly much of it."

"Perhaps," Aramis allows. Their young friend is equal parts impulsive and curious - the former might prevent their discovery, but the latter ensures that will not remain the case for long.

"We will need that bell regardless, if we are to open business," Aramis notes, "but that is not why I ask. When he enters, he will wonder where it is you sleep."

Porthos lifts his feet and rests them on the table as he keeps his wine balanced on his torso, almost horizontal in his sprawl on the chaise that he'd slept on for those few months before finding a better place in bed. "We'll definitely need someone to help us. Maybe we can make it ring throughout the whole house," Porthos muses, trying not to fixate too much on Aramis' second statement.

He peers up at Aramis, a bit sheepish and wary. "I know we said we'd tell them, but now that d'Artagnan's actually here, I'm struggling a bit to figure out how. If he asks where I sleep, there's a part of me tempted to rustle up the sheets upstairs and point there."

"If that is what you wish." Porthos has already faced so much derision in his life, and none of it deserved - Aramis will not begrudge him the desire to avoid more. Suddenly thirsty, Aramis drains half his glass, then goes to fill it. He takes his time of it, but when he turns, his face is set.

"I do not think I can lie. I will omit, but if pressed, Porthos...I do not think I can lie to him. Not about you."

Porthos shakes his head, not thinking that it's what he wishes. He just isn't sure he's ready to see hate and derision on the face of someone he's come to care about a great deal. It would be just as bad as if Athos were to turn his cheek to them. Porthos chews on his lower lip as he sets his glass aside, patting the space on the chaise beside him. "No," he says, finally. "No, I don't think it's what I wish. C'mere," he says, summoning up his courage. "Let's talk about how we ought to tell him."

Aramis comes and brings the bottle with him, sinking into the space next to Porthos. "It seems cruel to pile another shock onto such a narrow pair of shoulders," he says, dragging a restless hand through his hair. "We should give him time to acclimate, perhaps. There is enough to learn in Darrow without relearning one's own brothers."

Porthos pries away that hand very deliberately, before Aramis can pull out full strands. He replaces it with his own fingers, a gentler touch as he shifts into a lazy straddle of one of Aramis' thighs, balancing back near the knee with ease. "Maybe we should introduce him to Ishiah or maybe Jim," he suggests. "Get him used to the idea of two men being with each other before we tell him about us."

Porthos slides his splayed fingers through Aramis' hair, down to his neck, and scratches on the way back. "We should start locking our doors," he says mischievously.

"Double lock," Aramis agrees, shivering faintly for the scritch along his scalp. The quirk of Porthos' lips settles some of the anxious flutter in Aramis' insides - he cannot help but worry for D'Artagnan, for himself, for Porthos most of all, but if Porthos can still smile, so can he.

"Jim seems of similar temperament," he notes. "Eager and a little wild - a man like D'Artagnan reflected back at himself. It is a good fit if he is to see it is nothing to be troubled about."

"It's good for us, too," he points out. "We'll see how he fares at first, then after some time to get used to it," he says, wrapping his arms comfortably around Aramis' neck as he bows his head in order to softly kiss from the curve of Aramis' jaw over to his lips, settled and comfortable. He inhales deeply, pulling in the smell of Aramis from his nose pressed against his neck. "Bar the doors with heavy objects," he growls. "In case he's figured out how to pick locks."

Not that Porthos has taught him (though he had debated it). "I'm pleased to see him, even if I'm worried what he'll think."

"Now who'd have taught him that?" asks Aramis with a warm laugh. He turns his head, giving Porthos room as he settles a hand against his hip. "I did not realize how much I missed him until I rounded the corner and he was there," he muses. "I am pleased, too, even if I know this place will be hard for him. I suppose that makes me selfish."

Leaning back, Aramis smiles up at Porthos. "At least I am in good company."

"I was working up to it, give him a chance to settle into the regiment," Porthos protests, as if trying to defend himself against something he's yet to even do. He takes his time, brushing kisses over Aramis' neck and the scruff welcome under his mouth as he closes his eyes, knowing that even as he takes comfort in the intimacy, it's something d'Artagnan isn't going to have. "I wish we could find someone for him, but he's in love with Constance," he murmurs, settling back so he can get a good look at him in the candlelight.

He cups Aramis' face with both his hands, murmuring a soft, 'beautiful' under his breath before easing in again for a longer kiss. When he parts, breathing softly, he feels his heart race. "Maybe we could make it easier on him? Invite him for dinners?"

"He is young," Aramis replies, a little breathless for the reverence in Porthos' eyes, the thrill of that kiss still singing in his blood when Porthos pulls away again. "True love comes more than once at that age. But you are right."

Setting his wine glass aside, Aramis reaches for Porthos with both hands, moved to new fondness for his consideration of D'Artagnan's happiness. "We will invite him often. To eat and to spar - the knowledge that there is no throne here to protect will not sit easy, not after he waited so long for his commission, only to have it snatched away again."

"It probably came for you, what, three times? Four?" Porthos can't help his wicked little smirk, unable to ignore the joke at hand. "You're very good at coming on true love a few times a night when properly coaxed," he drawls, shifting now that Aramis' hands are free so they can sprawl out on the chaise. He maneuvers them until he can make his way to the bottom, happy to slip his fingers under Aramis' shirt to slide up his scar-flecked torso. "I wouldn't mind a bit of sparring against him. He's good," he praises. "Really good. It'll keep me in fine fighting shape, and maybe he can work alongside us? Not in the vampire thing, not yet, but the day work," Porthos murmurs, arms lazily draped around his waist. "He can't come every night, though," he says.

"Have to keep some romantic dinners for just you and I, don't I?"

"Not every night," Aramis agrees, arranging himself comfortably over Porthos until he can both see him and feel him stretched against every part of his body. "And it was three and a half, by my counting, though I've certainly saved the best for last."

He twines his fingers through Porthos' curls and then the end of his beard, giving it the smallest of tugs. "He's a good fighter. As good as Athos, one day, if he lives long enough. And I hope he will fight with us. But now - "

Tugging again, Aramis waits for Porthos' mouth to drop open before he leans down, sucking gently on his bottom lip, "I would very much like to enjoy the rest of my romantic evening."

Porthos eases back from the kiss, his eyes filled with fondness, love, and wonder. He wants to keep kissing Aramis, he truly does, but when the man has said something as amazing as what he has, he needs to ask and confirm, going with the tumbling of his stomach. "I hope I'm not the half," is his quiet and warm insistence. He laughs into the next kiss, though, arm slung around Aramis' neck while the other hand slides over to coax his knee a little further up, eager to spend more of his time kissing Aramis.

"Who said this romance was for you, eh? Maybe d'Artagnan awoke some new feelings in me," he says, which is terribly libelous given how eagerly Porthos is attacking Aramis' lips to chase kiss after kiss, each one deeper than the last.

Aramis fists his hands in Porthos' shirt, groaning for the peek of the A that wraps around Porthos' tattoo. "New feelings I am happy to spend the evening crushing," he replies when he can, then, "Of course you are not the half. Take this off," he adds, tugging on Porthos' shirt, "And let me show you."

"You really like that thing, don't you," Porthos marvels at the sound Aramis elicits as soon as he gets within sight of the tattoo. Porthos helps to fumble with his shirt, though it's a bit more work given that he's got a man on top of him. He does manage, shirtless in his sweatpants as he reaches out for Aramis' hand to grasp at the tattoo and do with it whatever he'd like.

He tilts his head to suck Aramis' earlobe between his teeth and bite firmly before beginning his favourite task, raising the flesh near the pink scar and making his own red mark to reconquer it for himself again.

Aramis runs his fingers along the ink, Porthos' skin warm and inviting, those swirling lines like an undertow that drags him down, forces his mouth in wide, open kisses along the mark. At his throat, Porthos sucks hard enough to sting, and Aramis feels a whine escape his throat.

"I love every mark on you that I have had a hand in healing," he replies, breathless, "But this one...this indelible mark I had no hand in...When I look at it, it feels like you are truly mine."

"Well, there's an easy reply to that," Porthos murmurs, laving his tongue over the mark one more time before he eases back, rubbing his thumb over it in coarse, slow circles. "I am yours, as much as we're each other's, here," he says, though as soon as he says it, he laughs with overly warm affection and disbelief as he presses his forehead to Aramis'. "Suppose I can't take my sleeves or shirt off anywhere near d'Artagnan, now can I?" he says fondly. "Unless I tell him I've developed a deep fondness for Aix-en-Provence," he deadpans.

"Though if you keep marking it up like that, I don't think we'll stay hidden very long at all," he says in a manner that only invites more of Aramis' mouth on the tattoo.

"I can't decide if I want the entire world to see it, or only me." Leaning down again, Aramis laves his tongue along the A, then presses a gentle, reverent kiss to the crucifix.

"I want to take one," he says, closing his hand over Porthos' where it rubs at Aramis' own scar. "Here. A crucifix, to spite the creature that nearly killed me, and a P." Squeezing, Aramis digs Porthos' blunt nail into the raised skin. "For the one who gave me strength to fight."