du_vallon | (no subject)

(no subject)

It's taken weeks and weeks to get Aramis here, but with the weather taking a turn for the cooler, they might not have much longer to enjoy the time at the beach. It's something Porthos had been captivated with, as soon as he found out people did it for fun. True, it wasn't the south of France, but it was a small part of the city they now lived in and it was a beautiful sunny day that wasn't too warm, so Porthos feels ready to take advantage. He's just pushed the umbrella into the sand, settling the bags of food in the shade so they don't overcook, and tosses his phone on top of the blanket.

"Look, you got within twenty feet of the ocean and you aren't even wanting to go home," he teases with a smirk, stripping off his shirt and nudging off his trousers until he's in nothing but the navy blue swimming trunks that he'd had Allison help him purchase. He digs through the bag to find the suntan lotion to prevent Aramis from going an unsavoury pink, gesturing for him to strip off his things. "Come on, now, off with your shirt."

Porthos is enjoying this entirely and absolutely, given that while there's still a few people scattered on the beach, none of them have the beautiful view that he does.

"This is a much nicer view than Le Havre, though the south of France could equal this and do better," Porthos admits, squeezing lotion into his palm.

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Far from a prude himself, Aramis still balks for a moment at the idea of divesting himself of most of his clothes. Many of the bathing costumes in Darrow might be better called scraps, and though he can hardly argue with the visual effect, it is strange to be so publicly near to naked.

"This is our oddest venture yet," he says, pulling off his shirt as ordered. Experimentally, he digs his toes into the sand. "To strip to my smalls and be covered in oil, it seems more like something meant for a stage at Madame Angel's."

Porthos grins with victorious delight when Aramis pulls off his shirt. He winds his way to Aramis' back to start rubbing the lotion into his shoulders, aiming to protect it from burning. His fingers, as they're prone to do, drift towards the scarred neck and spend a little extra time there, thumbs brushing circles as they work their way down his spine. "I always wanted to know what your most wicked story was about that place," he admits. "I know I saw you get up to plenty, but I suspected I missed some of the better acts of indiscretion."

"Well I've rather had to reevaluate the definition of wicked since taking you as a lover, haven't I?" asks Aramis with a smile, managing with great effort not to shiver in the sun as Porthos' hands work, seemingly huge as they slide down his back. He closes his eyes. "All my tales of the place now seem quite boring."

Porthos practically brims with pride, standing straighter for it as he presses his lips together to hide the smug smirk, soaking lotion into Aramis' hips and sides before moving to the muscles of his back. "I'll tell you a story, then," he says, taking on more lotion to finish Aramis' front, saving arms and legs for last. "One time, when I was there, she'd brought in a new girl from the countryside, near Spain. Dark hair in curls, wickedly seductive eyes, and a mouth like you wouldn't believe," he raves.

"She wore my hat while taking on as many lashings as my hand could handle, swearing in Spanish while she did," he says, rubbing both hands over each of Aramis' arms in turn before finishing with the legs, collapsing into a comfortable sprawl on the blanket. "Could've been your sister, really," he admits, innocent eyes angled up at Aramis.

"Is that what spawned the idea?" asks Aramis, effecting an air of nonchalance, if only for the sake of his tight swimtrunks, suddenly all the tighter as he pictures this. "I feel quite derivative."

He crosses his feet at the ankle and thinks cool thoughts. "And did you put this sister of mine over your knee?"

"Don't worry, you're still my favourite," Porthos promises with a grin, reaching for one of the bottles of water as he sets away the lotion, not thinking he'll need any for himself, though he thinks of standing chest-deep in the surf, not only for the view, but to cool him down from where the conversation takes him. "I did," he agrees. "Your bottom's rounder, though the lace of her underthings was more than fun to push my thumb inside."

Porthos leans over to press a pecked kiss to Aramis' cheek, nodding to the surf. "I'm going in the water. Are you coming with?"

"I think not," replies Aramis, watching the waves crash with a dubious frown. "Some of us were meant for shore, Porthos, and I am among them. I will stay here." He leans back on his elbows, waiting to discover what is so indulgent about the sun's rays on nearly his entire form.

"I suppose they make lace underthings for men here," he observes at length.

Porthos actually stumbles on uneven sand, shooting Aramis a distressed look with his brows knit. There's no question that he needs to seek out the cool water, now, given that he'll make a fool of himself on the beach otherwise, but god, does that picture make him want to touch all that skin of Aramis', as if to remind himself that it's still his.

"There's food in the basket," he says, when he finds his voice. "And I told Allison we'd be here, so if she calls, it's your job to answer the phone," he says pointedly with a nod in the direction of the thing. "Don't ruin my phone, chou, I'm growing to like the thing."

"I have yet to destroy my own," replies Aramis, indignant, but reaches for the food bags rather than the phone as Porthos walks away. He pauses to enjoy that little display, smirking as several heads turn to mark Porthos' progress, before turning his attention to a chilled apple. He peels it deftly with his main-gauche, popping a cool slice in his mouth to watch Porthos in the surf.

A small beep distracts him from the sight, and Aramis frowns down at Porthos' phone. "I ought to bury you," he tells it, but is startled to see his own face looking back at him. "My own likeness?" he murmurs, touching the screen, but it dissolves to that grid of little buttons. Suddenly, Allison's words come back to him - every icon has a meaning, and after a moment more, Aramis thumbs at the one marked Pictures.

A single image spreads to fill the screen - Aramis, asleep on the couch with his head pillowed on his arms, atop him, Athos curled into a ball. His surprised jerk slides another picture into view, again of himself, asleep, Athos curled in the crook of his arm. He swipes again, and again, discovering every picture to be more of the same, always him, or Athos, save for a single image of Allison's smiling face. "Porthos," Aramis murmurs softly, and feels his heart contract.

Porthos isn't a very strong swimmer, having only learned because when he was at sea for those precious few months, he'd thought drowning would be a poor thing indeed. Instead of going too deep, he lounges in the crashing waves of the surf, keeping his eye on Aramis in the distance underneath their umbrella and when he sees Aramis staring at the phone device, he rouses to his feet, thinking maybe someone's phoned and he's struggling to figure it out.

Porthos shakes the salt water from his curls as he starts his slow walk back up the beach, soaked with water and making the swimming trousers cling to his body. He shakes both hands through his hair, knowing it will frizz up unfortunately later. He ducks down for a towel when he's close enough, giving Aramis an expectant look. "Did someone call?" he asks, rubbing the cloth over his chest.

Aramis shakes his head, finally peeling his eyes from a shot comprised only of his back as he stretched some early morning in their apartment. "You have so many photos," he says, wondering. "And they are nearly all of me."

He holds out the phone. "I did not know you took even one. Porthos." He smiles, albeit tremulously. "There are so many."

Porthos takes it and uses the opportunity to take another shot of Aramis laid out in nothing but glistening oil and those sinful trunks, which he thinks might become his new backdrop. Once he's through, he slings the towel over his shoulder and crawls to his knees beside Aramis to steal himself a long kiss, grinning against Aramis' mouth.

"You barely know how to work the thing. I snuck as many as I could," he agrees, showing Aramis the ones of him naked in bed in the morning, soaping up in the shower, to one of just Aramis' folded hands, and then he's into another album all-together, which is the one with all the clothes he'd seen that looked as if they'd suit Aramis perfectly.

"You might have let me pose for them," Aramis tells him, though he is rather impressed at Porthos' use of light and framing. "But I suppose you have a natural talent," Aramis allows, "And, I dare say, an excellent subject."

He sits up, peering down at the images of trousers and ties and vests and shirts. "But what are these?"

"Vain bastard," Porthos growls, but there's nothing but fondness in it, adjusting so he's propped up one one elbow, peering up as Aramis explores the last of the folders on there. "Clothes," he says. "Ones that I saw and thought of you wearing." His shrug is elegant considering he's horizontal on the ground, dripping wet, and far from graceful. "I figure when there's money in our accounts again, I can go back and purchase them."

He leans over to fetch an apple from the basket, taking a hearty bite of the fruit as his eyes skim over Aramis' form, enjoying the way they can be in public and Aramis is in absolutely nothing at all. He grins and leans over to brush his thumb over a hickey mark he'd made on Aramis' hip the other day. "This one's holding up, isn't it?"

"Some of your best work," Aramis agrees with an appraising look, leaning back so that more of him can be viewed with ease. "I ought to start leaving yours where they can be seen. And you do know that I am not a doll for you to dress?"

Reaching, he brushes some droplets from Porthos' curls. "Though I do like the look of that gray doublet."

Porthos grins, thinking of having his marks on display for the world to see and he smooths his hand over the tattoo, as if the reminder has made him do it. "You'd look stunning in it, and maybe one of those bowties that I'd fasten just a bit too tight," he says, a serious look on his face. "So that every time you swallowed, it'd push against the knot in your throat and make you think of me."

"If you're willing," he says, trying to sound casual, "I wouldn't mind getting a capture of you and me, for my main screen. That's what Allison calls it."

"Ah yes, she did try to tell me that," says Aramis, clearing his throat against the sudden, intriguing pressure of a phantom tie. "But how?" Taking the phone from Porthos' hand, he aims it lengthwise at Porthos. "How is the image captured? How long must we remain still for it to be complete?"

Porthos laughs warmly as Aramis steals the phone from him, sliding his arm around his waist to tumble him in right on top of his body, feeling inclined to keep them close as he takes back the phone and shows Aramis the small button. He'd begun thinking of it as a seeing eye, something that blinked and captured everything in its path. "Kiss me and I'll show you how long," he coaxes as he slides his fingers over Aramis' palm to loosen his grip on the phone to get at it himself.

"That's hardly going to help me learn," says Aramis, who believes in kissing with a singular passion. He leans down, closing his eyes and pressing his lips to Porthos', unable to stop himself deepening the kiss once it's begun. Sighing happily, Aramis tangles a hand in Porthos' hair.

Porthos knows that he needs to keep his attention on the phone, but Aramis' kisses are entirely attention-sucking, drawing him in until he's utterly bewitched by his lips and the hand in his hair. He only barely lifts the phone far enough away to take the picture and by the time he has, his eyes are shut and he's busy kissing Aramis back as intently as ever, rolling them until he's on top with his knees pinning Aramis down to the blanket, small drops of water rolling down his back (and his wet suit getting Aramis wet as a result of their positions).

He presses one hand to Aramis' chest to splay there and keep him pinned as he checks the picture, smiling with smug victory when it's everything he'd hoped for and more. "Shame I can't put a naked etching of you on the main screen," he laments. "Except Allison might kill me."

Aramis relaxes beneath him, forgetting for a moment where they are as Porthos' weight rests against him. When he remembers he smiles, unrepentant in the sunshine. "Not one that I could pose for here, at any rate," he replies. "But show me the picture. I have always suspected I look exceptionally handsome whilst kissing."

Porthos chuckles warmly as he slides off of Aramis, wishing that he'd brought a set of dry trousers because the wet are clinging badly. He angles the umbrella so he'll be soaking in the sun before he hands over the phone with the picture open, heart skipping a beat when he sees how perfect the shot is -- maybe a bit blurry, but he can see the joy and love on their faces and can feel the intensity of the kiss.

"Look at that," he says, arms behind his head once the phone is handed off. "I hate to be the one to praise your ego, but you really do look good."

Aramis hums, finally succeeding in his struggle to look away from Porthos' blurred image to his own. "Quite," he agrees, and touches a careful fingertip to the screen over Porthos' captured scar.

Smiling, he hands back the phone. "One of these handsome creatures is a lucky man indeed."

Porthos groans loudly, intending for Aramis to hear him. "I get it, you think a lot of yourself, but the trouble is, I know I'm lucky," he says, taking the phone to slide it back in his things, digging his toes into the sand as the sun hits every inch of his body at the same time, warming him to his very soul.

"I'm the luckiest man alive, loving you."

Aramis laughs aloud, reaching with his bare foot to flick sand at Porthos' ankle. "I was referring to myself as the lucky one, but I am pleased you think my ego so strong and robust. Certainly something about me must be."

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