afineseamstress | (no subject)

Aramis is no longer in the mood to celebrate Halloween. After the trials of the strange, gray nightmare world he and those he loves dearest had found themselves in, after watching the people he loves hurt again and again, it's not for the purpose of celebration that Aramis outfits himself into costume.

The motorcycle is newly purchased, the license newer still, and Aramis swings a leg over it, leathers creaking as he settles. He rides quickly across town to where Porthos will be waiting for him, and as the wind whips through his hair, he lets Aramis fall away.

He doesn't have to be that man for a few hours. He doesn't have to wonder if the city that has given him so much will try to hurt him again, hurt Athos or Porthos, or their future family. He doesn't have to pretend that he's been sleeping when he has not, or that everything is alright when it certainly isn't. Just for an evening, he doesn't have to be himself, worrying incessantly about the things he can't control.

Pulling up in front of the shelter, he lets the motorcycle engine roar once before he sets the engine to idle. He breathes deep, exhaling with an almost bored sound as he waits for his charge.

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"How could I ever be patient when you're as handsome as you are?" Porthos demands, because it's like putting meat in front of a wolf and expecting it not to pounce. "I'm making up for years and years of lost time," is his innocent protest as he slowly, carefully steps out of the tub. "All those times you paraded shirtless before me. Your too-tight trousers. Catching you in my arms when you were half-drunk or hanging from the eaves of homes."

"I did not know I wooed you whilst hanging from parapets," says Aramis with a small smile. When Porthos is upright, he wraps a soft towel around his waist, passing another one through his curls before he settles it around Porthos' shoulders and pulls it snug.

"Pajamas or nude?" he asks, using his grip on Porthos' towel to pull him in for a kiss.

"Pajamas," Porthos admits, because even though he aches, he thinks he'll be far too tempted in the nudge for another round and his aching and sore body likely can't take it. He lets out a happy cry for the hand in his hair, drifting into Aramis' space to share in that kiss. "It's not so much the parapets as it was you in my arms after. I may have groped my fair share of your muscles," he confesses.

Porthos must be feeling poorly if he wants to wear pajamas, and Aramis handles him with care, holding him gently until the kiss is done. "Then I did not imagine your lingering hand on my arse after the window in Rambouillet?" he asks, leading Porthos into the bedroom to sit on the bed while he gathers his clothes.

"Arms up," he says when he has found his shirt.

"No, nor in Rouen or Vicomte," is Porthos' smug reply, lifting up his arms slowly and staring at the mottled bruise on the arm that's right beside his face. He knows he'll heal, but this is all at the hands of someone he'd thought to be a friend. That's the hard part to get used to.

Following Porthos' line of vision, Aramis is swift to cover up the bruise with the shirt, pulling it down over Porthos until he is covered. "It wasn't him," he says, even if he himself does not wish to see Oliver ever again. He holds the legs of Porthos' pajama pants open for his legs. "Your real friend would not do that to you."

"It was his worst self," Porthos replies quietly, stepping into the trousers. "Aramis, it's not that I'm thinking about. What I can't stop thinking about is what if an evil, dark version of me had been out there and had done this to you or Athos. I never would've been able to live with myself," he admits.

Aramis does not mean to snort, but it comes out of him all the same. "No such version of you exists," he tells Porthos. "You could not have had a more cruel childhood, yet you pulled yourself from the darkness to become an honorable man."

Porthos casts a dark look on Aramis. "There are dark parts of me. The ones that enjoy the fight. The part that liked thieving and the Court and the wickedness. What if that had been pulled out of me and set against you? Aramis, I'm serious. I'm scared of the notion."

"It would not happen," says Aramis with perfect certainty. "You could scarcely even spank me more than twice." Aramis sits next to Porthos on the bed. "I will never fear you, Porthos. Even your dark parts, I know too well."

Porthos still isn't sure he believes that the way Aramis does, but it's not like he has much of a choice. He curls up with Aramis and gives him a tender look as he scoots his way to the head of the bed, opening his arms to collect Aramis in them post-haste. "C'mere," he coaxes. "I'm cold without you."

"Do not let me hurt you," says Aramis, for he is still conscious of his weight against Porthos' bruises. The invitation of his arms, however, is too much to resist, and Aramis settles himself gently between them, pulling the blankets up and over them after.

"I hate the two days that you were alone in there," he murmurs.

Porthos snuggles in the moment Aramis is close enough, eager as he wraps him up in his arms, drifting fingers through Aramis' hair. "I wasn't alone," he reminds him gently. "I was with Oliver and Felicity, his sister," he reminds Aramis. "Even before the attack, I had friends with me. First thing I did, though, was run for you and Athos."