du_vallon | (no subject)

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It's not like Porthos dislikes the Kagura lodge place, but he finds it awfully suspicious. He's not entirely sure anyone should trust a building that pops up out of nowhere, especially in a place like this where suddenly you can become a child or a woman, or where things show up from nowhere. He can't shake this feeling that something about this place isn't going to be right, but Aramis wants to investigate for a reception venue and what Aramis wants, he gets.

That said, Porthos isn't getting dragged into this alone, which is why he's dragged Athos with them -- forcibly for the first few blocks, his arm wrapped in Athos' to actually drag him when his feet might delay. Once they arrive, though, he wanders to Aramis' side and gives him a wary look before opening the doors to the lodge.

"If there's weird monsters hiding behind the doors of this place, I'm going to veto it for the reception," he informs the both of them, but as he steps inside, it's a warm atmosphere and looks beautiful. There's the small of hot cocoa on the air and a crispness and warmth that pulls him inside, taking off his coat and hanging it as he finds himself pulled forward.

Maybe he should take it back.

This place is amazing.

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Aramis sweeps past them both when the doors are opened, nearly in raptures for the sight before him. The wood is warm and inviting, the lamps soft and low - the high-lofted lobby alone speaks of an understated grandeur that will fit perfectly with his and Porthos' ever warring asthetic, and Aramis all but runs towards the huge doors that must lead to the banquet hall.

"You see?" he calls over his shoulder. "I told you it arrived here just for us!"

Athos watches both men with amused skepticism as the march into the grand entryway and immediately claim it as their own. Aramis’ dramatics are to be expected, of course; Porthos pretends horror at at each new extravagance, but in the end seems to embrace each new madness. Athos can claim no surprise, then, that their trek to the mountaintop lodge earned such a reaction. And though he might think their investment in this grand affair a rather silly thing, he has to admit that the lodge suits them.

“Remind me why I’ve been brought along, again?” he asks as he takes off his own coat and hat, watching the pair bound ahead.

"In case there were monsters lurking behind the doors," Porthos feels inclined to remind him, because 'Kagura' isn't exactly the calmest and nicest name for a place. He gives him a pointed look as he follows with an excited and eager look, having already fallen in love with the ambience and by the smell coming from the kitchens, they can absolutely do what he wants from a meal.

He follows after Aramis to the ballroom, waggling his brows at Athos to get him to join. "Besides, we need your steady opinion. Aramis and I, we get excited, but you'll stay cool and logical. Won't he?" he asks, of Aramis, who seems starry-eyed and taken.

Aramis is all but deaf to what they say, but still he nods agreeably. The place is beautiful and they will have it - beyond that he cares not. "There is space for the musicians there," he says, sketching it in his mind's eye, "Dancing there. The act is quite different here," he offers in an aside to Athos. "Bordering on prurient. Porthos and I adore it."

“Naturally,” Athos deadpans. He strolls forward, and despite his objections, he does cast the appropriately critical eye on the ballroom. “How many people do you intend to invite?"

Porthos had been still scoping out where the food comes from, intent to check on the kitchens of the establishment when Aramis makes his comment for the dancing. His cheeks flush slightly as he wanders back. "I don't know," he admits. "I think the last list we put together had roughly a hundred, between the invitees and then their plus ones," he says. "And I want to extend invitations to anyone who helps," he says seriously. "The tailor, the cake-maker, all those," he says, pacing the outside of the hall as he grins at Aramis from across it.

"If you want dancing," he calls across, "you need to pick the songs. I'm rubbish at that."

"Leave it to Allison," Aramis advises, unable to stop himself going to Porthos now that he can finally see it, their wedding in this space, after all these months of searching. He glances up, passing well to the left of an odd plant hanging in the center of the hall, and fastens himself to Porthos' side. "She knows these modern tunes better than we ever will."

Getting swept into the puzzle despite himself, Athos circles the room, imagining dancing here, tables there. He makes note of the alcove Aramis noticed, which would certainly be perfect for a small set of musicians, and casts his eyes on the large windows that occupy one end of the ballroom, and look as though they could be thrown open to the air in better weather.

“Pity it will be too cold to open the windows,” he muses, looking thoughtful as he steps up to them.

Or tries to step up to them. Suddenly, Athos feels as though his boots are trapped in sucking mud of the most impossible sort. He looks down, but sees nothing but polished wood floor. It must be his imagination, surely.

He tries again, and encounters the same result. Somehow, for some baffling reason, Athos is stuck.

Porthos grins as he wraps an arm comfortably around Aramis' waist, leaning in for a fond kiss before he remembers that he's not really supposed to do that in front of Athos. He licks his lips as he eases back, peering over Aramis' shoulder with confusion as he watches Athos struggling against what appears to be an invisible barrier.

"Is this supposed to be your new act? You're not a very good jester, Athos," Porthos informs him, wandering closer -- but not close enough to get under, because at the last moment, his gaze darts up and sees that there's a plant stuck above where Athos is.

One he recognizes from his books. Hiding his amusement behind a hand, he inclines Aramis to join him. "Are you actually, really stuck?" he asks, seriously, but he keeps one arm out to prevent Aramis from going closer, whistling and nodding up with his chin to the plant.

Aramis steps next to Porthos, an inquisitive frown on his own features. It's not like Athos to clown about, but Porthos' arm keeps Aramis from getting closer. Even from here, he can see Athos try and fail to lift his feet, and this much is enough to send Aramis' hand to his musket. He does look up, though, and blinks.

"Is that?" he asks, gazing at the mistletoe. If he looks beyond the bow that ties it, Aramis can well recognize it for its medicinal properties, but this is the first he's seen it hung as a Christmas decoration. "It is. This is like in your book," he tells Porthos, though Aramis has never read anything about people being trapped beneath it.

He kneels to get a better look at Athos' feet, finally glancing up to the man himself. "Oh dear," he says, unable to hide a smile. "Porthos? Perhaps you'd best go alert management of our predicament."

“That is absurd. Of course I am not-“ But his struggle only leads to more flailing, and more smiles from his friends. He nearly falls, but the same power that kept him in one place seems to hold him upright. “Pardieu. What in hell is going on?"

Porthos lingers for long enough to watch Athos try and free himself, unable to help his booming laugh at the ridiculous look it makes. He squeezes Aramis' shoulder as he leaves to find out what's going on. Within fifteen minutes, he returns with a look on his face that's a little more reserved and not quite as boisterously happy, though his eyes gleam with something. He clears his throat to get their attention again, striding back.

"The manager has no idea what I could be talking about," he starts with the bad news. "But, there were a few people drinking cocoa who told me it's some enchanted sprig or something. Keeps moving around," he says. He turns his attention to Aramis now, as if Athos doesn't exist. Pitching his voice lower, because it's no sense for Athos to obsess over what he has to say next, he tells him: "You have to kiss him to free him. It takes a kiss."

And with the way Athos had been (has been) looking at Aramis, Porthos doesn't even think it's a question of who should do it.

"Indeed," replies Aramis, only just able to contain his astonishment, but when he glances at Athos over Porthos' shoulder, he has the look of the man about to claim an unexpected gift. "Well," he says in a tone just for Porthos, for the man has spoken of this more than once, "Let us pray he finds my male form half as enticing."

He kisses Porthos' cheek before he slips away, coming to stand before Athos where he stands still trapped. Aramis sees no reason to hesitate, but he does offer a short bow. "My friend," he says, pulling his hat from his head, "I hope you will trust me." Aramis steps into Athos' space, hoping he does not receive a headbutt when he tips Athos' chin up with steady pressure and fastens his mouth to his own. A simple kiss will likely do, but Aramis does not mean to waste his opportunity. Shifting his hand into Athos' hair, Aramis kisses him as thoroughly as he dares, only pulling back when he feels an ungentlemanly flush steal over him.

It’s a maddening, ridiculous fifteen minutes that Athos waits, literally fixed to that single square of floor, forced to watch Aramis smirk at he anticipates his fate. He can only stand, arms crossed over his chest, and glare at the poor, unfortunate middle distance.

“I will find a way to blame this on you,” he mutters, while the interminable wait stretches on.

Porthos does not return with welcome news, but Athos can tell immediately that something is afoot. “What’s this about, now?” he asks with a pointedness that usually garners him some response, but to no avail. “Aramis, Porthos, what in God’s name—“

But Athos never finishes his question because all at once, Aramis is kissing him.

Part of Athos’ mind tries to tell him that he should be pushing Aramis away - that, by God, he should strike the man for his idiocy - but sheer instinct, briefly, betrays thoughts he has only truly allowed himself in the dark of night. His hand finds the collar of Aramis’ jacket, and his fingers curl there for just a moment, sinking in just a bit, until he remembers himself. His eyes are wide as Aramis pulls away, and it is a moment before he realizes that he is free of his invisible prison.

At least it provides him an excuse to step back. Though his heart remains lodged in his throat, his decorum swiftly returns, and he cooly lifts a brow. “You might have warned me."

"And let you obsess?" Porthos asks, his heart pounding as he stares at the both of them, the show before him utterly transfixing and intoxicating. He had been worried, a touch, about being jealous, but there hadn't been a shred of jealousy apart from the little voice that had wanted to be the one who got to kiss Athos, but those lingering looks had been given to Aramis and not him, so he thinks this is for the best. "Nah," he says swiftly.

"You're free now, aren't you?" he says, stepping forward so he can slide his hand under Aramis' shirt and rest at the small of his back, inching up to see if Aramis' heart is racing as much as Porthos', his blood doing a swoop and a dive, as if trying to tell Porthos 'you very, very much like this'.

And it appears that Athos didn't entirely hate it. It's something, all right.

Outwardly, Aramis is as collected as ever, but beneath Porthos' hand his heart is indeed racing, his eyes fastened to Athos in what can only be called The Stare. The warmth of Porthos' hand does not help at all - or rather, it does, only perhaps in a way that does not lend itself towards any of them further collecting themselves - but at length Aramis eases into it, placing his hat back atop his head with steady hands.

He resists the urge to touch his mouth, dragging his eyes from Athos' own when he fails to resist that temptation as well, and looks to Porthos. This, too, proves to be a mistake, for Porthos has a look about him that only ever ends up in a sudden divestment of clothes. It pushes Aramis' brow upwards, and the corner of his mouth as well. "I don't know," he says, "In the interests of thoroughness, perhaps you ought to have a go."

Athos scoffs, though whether it’s directed at Porthos’ excuses or Aramis’ suggestion is unclear. He turns on his heels away from them both to continue his stroll towards the windows. That way, he does not have to look at either of them; that way, they surely will not see the flush that rises on his cheeks. He cannot quite resist as Aramis has, and he brushes his hand over his lips, fingers lingering on his cheek where the other man’s beard roughed against his skin.

He swallows hard, and swallows again, and does not trust himself to speak for a very long long moment.

“Will they prepare the meal here as well?"

Porthos' lips curl with smug victory when he sees what Athos is doing with his fingers, giving Aramis a look that says 'I told you so' as his heart pounds away like a mad thing, forcing him to reconcile the idea in his head with the vision before him that's happened. His smile is a touch sad when Athos moves off, shrugging to try and play as though it doesn't matter to him that Athos had ignored Aramis' jest -- because, in truth, Porthos does want a turn.

"I think so," he replies warmly, his hand in circles at Aramis' back now. "I haven't finalized the menu, but when I do, I think they'll be well capable of handling it." Nudging his nose to Aramis' cheek, he presses a kiss to the junction of neck and jaw. "Was it as good as it looked?" he murmurs softly.

"I will tell you all when we are alone," Aramis promises, turning to kiss Porthos properly, "And show you precisely how he kissed back." He casts a sly eye over Porthos' shoulder, knowing full well the flush that stains the man's cheeks. Aramis suspects it's not entirely for him, either, a thought that moves him to kiss Porthos again, laughter in his eyes when he pulls himself a chaste distance away, lest Athos remain in the corner forever.

"We'll have a look at the kitchens next," he says, "I've already arranged it."

Athos blinks rapidly and forces the thought of Aramis’ lips upon his from his mind. He cannot be thinking of this, not when he is helping them with their damned wedding. The entire idea of wanting his dear friends like this - and he does, by God, he can no longer deny that niggling desire that haunts the back of his thoughts, not after that - must be unwanted, unfair, a sacrilege of their bond. How can it be anything but? If the force of Aramis’ kiss tells of a different possibility, it is one still too confusing and unheard-of for Athos to contemplate.

“Don’t terrify the staff with your extravagance,” Athos chides with a touch of a smile in his voice, forcing all other thoughts behind carefully constructed walls. He is a man well practiced in denial, thank goodness. Summing up a bit more courage, he turns to face them, and even rolls his eyes when he finds them embraced. “To the kitchens, then?"

"My menu isn't extravagance," Porthos says, as if cross (though his voice lacks all heat, given the fact that he absolutely doesn't feel anything resembling it, only heated for a much more different reason, prodded along by Aramis' steady kisses). "To the kitchen, yes," he agrees, mourning the distance that Aramis stands away, though he takes in a deep breath to calm his mind.

He wanders towards the door, ready to investigate and discover those amazing smells. "Come along?" he asks of the other two.

"Of course," says Aramis, glancing up at the mistletoe as he follows. It moves, Porthos had said, and Aramis' mouth quirks in a hopeful smile as he silently wills the thing to join them in the kitchen.

"I asked them to put out some samples," he says, "Not to contest your menu, mind," he tells Porthos, "But so that you may see what the kitchens are capable of. Ah, these must be they."

Aramis stops before a table laden with various plates, each sporting a different design and set of cutlery, and topped with assorted dishes. Aramis lifts a wine glass, a little sad to discover wine has not been laid out also. "Athos," he says when he realizes he does not know, "What is your favorite food?"

Athos pauses a moment longer to collect himself, but dutifully follows as well. In the kitchen, he again grows thoughtful, hands clasping behind his back with a critical air, frankly glad to have a task to which he can turn his mind, even if it is a rather silly one. “Are we meant to try all of these?” he wonders aloud, still puzzled as to all of this must work.

He is examining a plate of artfully arranged fish when Aramis’ question startles him. “I?” Athos fears he may be blushing under the scrutiny even of Aramis’ mild, playful look, the memory of their lips upon each other not distant enough. “Duck,” he answers after a beat, a bit surprised that he has an answer at all. “Roasted duck."

He does not see the sprig of green, hanging off a ceiling light just behind him.

Porthos doesn't notice it either, so intent on sampling the menu of foods before him, trying bits of sauces with his pinky, using the fork to cut them up and sample them. Instantly, this goes from being a place he likes to a place he loves, genuinely able to see the wedding here. He's moving down the line, oblivious to Athos' plight as he peers at the row of food.

"I can cook a very good duck," he says with a glance up. "If that's something you like."

"He does," Aramis agrees, straightening with an appreciative expression, one that transforms to outright delight when he sees what hangs near Athos' head. He swiftly points to another plate. "I knew I asked for duck," he says, "Athos, come and sample it."

With that, he walks round to the other side of the table. It's a perfect vantage point for what he hopes is soon to come.

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