afineseamstress | (no subject)

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porthos

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The box is there when he wakes, settled at the edge of the bed and almost hidden by Aramis' kicked up sheets. He stares down at it for a long moment, listening to Porthos move about in the kitchen, and when he is awake enough, Aramis drags the box to him to open.

Looking down at its surprising contents, Aramis smiles.

"Washing up!" he calls, exiting the bed with box in hand straight to the bathroom, where he wastes no time, fingers busy with more than the work of slipping the silk up and over his legs. If he is surprised, Aramis is equal parts impressed, stunned, and more warm than he's ever been in his life.

When at last he is set to rights, Aramis gives the corset a last tug and opens the bathroom door, walking the short distance to linger in the bedroom doorway. He gazes at Porthos' back as he rummages in the pantry and smiles, leaning his hip against the frame. "I believe I'll need some help with the string."

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Porthos' brow furrows as he stares down at Aramis wondrously, still amazed that Aramis can be so convinced of Porthos' looks as something that moves him to this. "I'm keeping you forever," he says, sober and serious as he lifts up Aramis' knuckles to press a firm kiss to each one -- each a promise.

He grins as he palms Aramis' hips with both hands and uses sheer strength to lift Aramis over a foot to his right, room for Porthos to crawl in and drape one leg over both of Aramis' while he throws his arm over his chest, chin on his shoulder. "You hurting?" he murmurs quietly.

"Only in ways that I will savor," Aramis promises him, laughing for his new and sudden position in the bed. He wraps his body around Porthos' in turn and rubs their noses together. "Was I very loud? I cannot remember, and I think I heard Athos come home while I was changing."

Porthos' laugh is low and heavy, though hardly quiet himself as he scrunches up his nose with the touch. "If he did, then he's going to be very, very mad at us," Porthos confesses, feeling light-headed and giddy for the confession. He rubs his fingers up and down Aramis' hip and cinches his leg a little tighter so he's hanging on like a leech.

Peering upwards towards the ceiling, Porthos wonders if Athos is still as miserable. "Does he seem happier to you? I can never tell. I'm not as good at reading Athos as you are."

"Of course you are," replies Aramis, pulling Porthos' leg firmly around him, "You simply can't accept that anyone would be so willfully miserable, and I love you for that."

Still, he sighs, resting his head against the pillows to stare at the ceiling. "He is closer to accepting he is trapped here, and that life must be different. That is not nothing."

Porthos cranes his head up to shift and adjust until his cheek is pressed to Aramis' shoulder, where he can lean up and lay soft kisses against Aramis' neck. "I don't want him to be miserable, but I also don't want him to make us feel guilty," he admits, sliding his clothed arms around Aramis' waist to give him a bit of sensation and friction. "And he's going to be our best man," he adds, with a boyish smile of joy.

"Of course, that is, if we get to ever get married with Allison and Athos glaring at each other like alleycats," he snorts. "I'm half-convinced she's seen fit to challenge him to a duel. That won't end well."

Aramis clears his throat, staring with greater determination at the ceiling, for a duel is exactly what he had suggested to Allison. It worked for d'Artagnan, after all, and she and he are remarkably alike.

"It will hardly come to that," he says. "They are our best man and maid of honor - they will have to work together, or I will send you in with the saddest pair of brown eyes they have ever beheld."

"What?" Porthos wonders teasingly as he lifts his head and widens his eyes suitably enough to show what he thinks Aramis might mean. "Like this?" he suggests, lower lip jutted out slightly as he allows his eyes to widen ever the more. "And ask them very politely to stop fighting and get along?" he snorts, the innocent look falling away swiftly as he rocks his hips up against Aramis to get a bit closer.

"Maybe we could split up their tasks?" he suggests. "Make it less of a chance of a riot. Allison can help you with seating and Athos can help me figure out some way to sound decent when I have to give a speech." Or worse, he thinks, blanching...

The vows.How has he not thought of them until now?

"Who could deny you?" asks Aramis with a smile, though it fades when Porthos' does. "Athos has a speech of his own to torment him," he reminds Porthos. "If anyone might help you, I would think it is Allison."

Aramis shifts onto his side so he does not have to turn his head to look at him. "What troubles you?" he asks, stroking fingers soothingly against Porthos' back. "If it is Athos' speech, believe me, we all fear it."

Porrthos snuffs out a soft laugh at the witticism, though he shakes his head, taking soft comfort in the path of Aramis' fingers. "It's not his speech. He'll manage, even if it ends up being thirty words." It would be short and to the point, but it would probably still be powerful. No, Porthos doesn't worry for that at all.

"I just realized I have to write vows," he says, a wild look on his face of worry. "And yours are going to be perfect. Mine will never live up to them."

"You make me beautiful vows every day," Aramis assures him, moved to another almost painful twist of tenderness for Porthos' worry. "Every look, every touch, every endearment that tumbles from your mouth without thought. Keep things simple and from the heart, and I will be the one who must worry my own will pale in comparison."

"I just don't know how I'll be when writing them," he admits, still worried despite Aramis' protests otherwise. "I'm good at speaking them, but these are important," he says firmly. "These are the things you'll remember forever, that'll be recorded. They have to be perfect," he says, stomach twisting to think of that. "I don't want to be bad."

"I will remember them, yes," says Aramis, "Just as I remember everything else you do. I like that others will know how you feel, but you will be speaking to me, and you could never disappoint me, Porthos."

Taking Porthos' hand, Aramis kisses each of his fingertips. "It is not possible. But if you are worried, I'm certain Allison will help you."

Porthos is still wary and anxious, but he nods his head, willing to ask Allison for help. "Could we do 'em in French?" he requests. "I'm not sure I can get across what I really mean in English, not without stumbling and a lot of stammering," he confesses, closing his eyes halfway at the kisses to his fingertips.

"What do you want to hear?" he wonders.

"What I already know." Aramis smiles, as quietly joyous and hopeful as he'd been when he first realized that this could be forever. "That you will never stop loving me, that you will never give me up, that we will be at each other's sides forever. And if it is to be in French, do go on about my arse at length."

Porthos' laugh is a steady and low thing, sending vibrations through both their bodies. "So Allison and Athos, Constance and d'Artagnan can all understand?" he replies. "You'll have me scandalizing our friends if you get your way," he murmurs, grinning broadly as he thinks about what he'll say and how often he'll have to practice it and how badly he wants them to be perfect.

"Maybe I can talk about the future I see for us," he muses. "For you, and me at your side."

"I'm sure you'll say nothing they haven't thought themselves before," says Aramis, grinning shamelessly back. He shifts closer as if it might make that day come faster. "I wish I could have all of our days together at once," he confesses. "I'm so curious what the future holds for us. It is hard to wait when I know it might be family."

"We're already a bit of a family now," he says, which is the honest truth. Porthos bows his forehead in against Aramis', hands sliding down towards his bare arse to squeeze. "You and me, Athos upstairs. Allison and d'Artagnan under the same roof. You know she's gonna be devastated when we leave, yeah?" he points out. "She's already been asking me about it, hinting at all of it."

"Maybe I'll shock everyone and go on and on about your lovely other assets," he smirks, nudging his hand between them to give him one firm stroke before he moves it back to Aramis' hip.

Aramis groans and touches his forehead to Porthos' shoulder, not certain he can bear growing hard again, and Porthos is certainly tempting enough to manage it. "We will have a room for her," he says, "And Athos, and anyone else should they wish to spend time with us. Rooms for the children, of course, and the countryside to roam in."

"And how big is our country house, hmm?" Porthos wonders, laughing with disbelief. Yet again, Aramis is surprising him by thinking that their lodgings and plans and events are all bound to be much bigger than anything Porthos had imagined. "I'd always pictured us in a creaking small house with about four or five rooms, with a barn out back for the animals," he says. "The way you talk, I think you're picturing La Fère."

"It is not like that here," Aramis insists. "One does not need to be of the nobility to own a large home. Though," he says, for he has pondered this, "We will not be able to afford anything both large and fine. We will have to buy large and improve upon it ourselves. By the time children come, we will be prepared."

Porthos eases back slightly, craning his head backward as he looks at Aramis and wonders, not for the first time, what Aramis sees in his mind (and of their future). "No, we won't have the money," he agrees, not unless somehow they find a way to become rich. "How long until there's children?" he asks, this being what he wants to know. "By blood, first?"

"Nine months," says Aramis, "Plus whatever time we need to prepare. What are you thinking?" he asks, curious, for he finds he doesn't care where they begin, only that they do it. "Shall we start with our own? Take in children as their need becomes apparent to us, or actively seek them?"

Porthos blinks rapidly, feeling a bit overwhelmed and light-headed for Aramis' timeline. It's a lot sooner than he had ever expected, though he still thinks warmly of the notion the minute he pictures it. "Nine months?" he echoes. "Nine months after the wedding? That soon?" And yet, unsurprised, because Aramis has long wanted a family.

He shifts slightly, still uncomfortable with so soon, what with Porthos still not trusting himself to be capable of fatherhood, with no example and little practice.

"That is only the requisite waiting time, cariño," says Aramis with a gentle smile. "How long we will have to prepare when we do decide we are ready." He fits a fingertip into the worried line between Porthos' brows. "Something tells me that nine months after the wedding will not be enough."

The touch only makes his brow furrow more as he stares at Aramis, hating that he feels like this because it's not really the way he wants to feel. He's excited about kids, but he's more comfortable when it comes to orphans. He knows how to treat them because he'll treat them the way he'd wanted that.

But a child? A child born of Aramis' blood that has known nothing of the streets? Porthos doesn't know how to be a father, not like that. "I don't want to be bad at it," is his fervent insistence. "And I don't know how to be good."