Chapter 7 - Christmas evening


As predicted earlier, there are clothes hanging in front of the radiator, left to dry. It's almost too warm in the appartment, compared to the freezing atmosphere outside. Aramis is wrapped in a gigantic hoodie which doesn't belong to him, and Porthos is actually thinking that his boyfriend should just buy larger clothes since he's always stealing Porthos's.

Aramis would only say that it's not the same, the actual answer he gave Porthos the first time he teased him about it. Aramis doesn't care about bigger clothes; he cares about Porthos's sweatshirts and tee-shirts. They've become the only homewear he puts on. Porthos even suspects that when Aramis buys him stuff, he's thinking about himself as well. He won't ask. He doesn't want to stir trouble when it comes to Aramis and his insecurities.

For now, Porthos is content to vegetate on the couch while his boyfriend skypes with his sister and her children back in Spain. There's a lot of laughter and shrills coming from the bedroom, even with the door half closed. Porthos is all too aware the main regret Aramis had with cancelling the trip was that he wouldn't see his nephew and his niece. They've been talking for at least an hour, and they're not showing any sign of ending the call any time soon.

Porthos is flipping through the pages of the book Aramis got him. He can't be bothered to read the text accompanying the pictures so he's simply looking at them. He cannot understand why his boyfriend would think this present was not as good as the one Porthos got him. It's not the same, it's not a trip to see his family or some fancy hotel with room service, massages and hot tubs, but it's still special, as far as Porthos is concerned.

There used to be this very fine foster family he stayed with when he was a teenager, people he still keeps in touch with, even though they live on the other side of the country. They were such artists and Porthos would have never believed he would enjoy it so much, not when it was him against the rest of the world.

The first museum was a bore, but then, it was full of some really weird and creepy statues. His teenage self was not impressed. The second one, though. Classical statues and amazing paintings, so many colours. He still remembers the first painting he absolutely loved, he has a print of it in the living room, right behind the Christmas tree.

He was never an artist himself, but after the museums and the lessons he soon dropped out, he went to camp with the daughter. They grab lunch whenever she's in Paris. She has yet to meet Aramis, but whenever they share pictures on Facebook, she's quick to make as many inappropriate comments as she can. No wonder they got on so well when they were younger. Too bad she lives in another country.

The summer camp was great, not because they had art projects or went to visit fantastic Parisian museums and saw world-famous paintings. For once, Porthos felt like he mattered to people who were eager to make him happy and have him belong somewhere. Besides, without this camp, he would have never met Athos, the grumpy cat always sulking in a corner, taking part in activities only after being dragged there. Always reluctantly.

Someone Porthos could relate to. Someone he can relate to, even today. Even when he's made peace with his past, when he's moved on and made a decent life for himself. Athos mostly hasn't, but he doesn't appear to mind. They've known each other for more than ten years, enough for Porthos to not worry about him anymore.

So really, Porthos doesn't see why Aramis would hesitate to give him this gift. It's a beautiful book, the catalogue of the great exhibit they went to last month. The pictures are as wonderful on the glossy pages as they were hanging on the walls of the Grand Palais, period clothing, eccentric hairstyle, white skin, pretty princes, princesses and queens. It's impossible to choose a favourite.

He carries on flipping through the pages, there's still Spanish gibberish coming from the bedroom. If he raises his head high enough, Porthos can see half of Aramis, who's sprawled on the bed, one calf in the air and his other leg hitting the side of the bed in a steady rhythm. He does more listening than talking.

All good things come to an end, though, and a couple of minutes later, the door creaks open and Aramis slips out. He goes to get a glass of water then plops on the carpet, returning Porthos's smile.

"I take it they had a good Christmas." Aramis nods. "Did they receive your presents?"

"Ours," he corrects, so quickly he almost cuts Porthos off. "Yes. One more Christmas miracle. They liked them."

"Good. I'm loving your present to me, too, you know."

Aramis beams at him, then crawls closer to take a better look at the pictures. Women in straw hats, ribbons in their hair, flowers, flowing dresses, pastel colours, small children hugging their mother, angels.

"Everything all right?" Porthos asks after a while. Aramis is just sitting there, one hand clutching an empty glass and his eyes on the book, but he hasn't said a word, and that's unlike him. He looks up at him and smiles once more, a tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Yes. I miss them, that's all."

"You'll see them soon. February is only two months away."

"Yes, I know."

Porthos runs his fingers through Aramis's wet hair, a soothing gesture as he leans against his touch.

"Come here," he decides, setting the open book on the floor and reaching out to pull Aramis on the couch with him. He ends up half on top of Porthos, head on his chest, hands firmly rabbing his shoulders and one foot resting on the carpet. Porthos hugs him close.

They only listen to their breathing for some time. It's quiet, no music for once, blinking lights in one corner of the room. Porthos rubs his back in the same fashion as Aramis's fingers are running patterns on his shouder and on his neck. It makes him shiver once in a while.

"This one's a cute one," Aramis eventually says, his face turned toward the book. Porthos looks down.

It's the portrait of a little girl, a princess of some sorts, dressed in a blue dress. She's wearing a blue bonnet and there's a basket of flowers set by her side. She has rosy cheeks and she looks lovely and Porthos marvels at how someone could paint such a vivid picture back in the 18th century.

"Yep. She was really talented, wasn't she?" He feels the nod on his chest. He hears the low sigh. He nudges Aramis's shoulder to get his attention. "What's on your mind, 'mis?"

Aramis's chewing on his lip when he finally looks up. He looks thoughtful, and for a second, Porthos actually believes he won't tell him anything.

"My dad said something earlier, but...it's not..."

It takes all of Porthos's self-control not to growl. He's angry because no matter what Aramis's father might think, it's Christmas and there's no valid excuse to ruin the day by saying stuff that would upset his son.

On the other hand, he's relieved when Aramis speaks again, doesn't shut him out and shares what's bothering him. Shares things he would have kept to himself in the past, not matter how much they hurt. It hurts to say them out loud, too, but at least it leads to someone helping and supporting him.

"He was telling me what they were going to do with Ali and Anna and it was all well until he said that he had better enjoy it because it was unlikely he would have any other grandchildren in the future."

Porthos's answer is a crushing hug and a bruising kiss. Aramis's cheeks are flushed when they part.

"How can he be so sure?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

Porthos frowns, shakes him a little. Aramis sinks against him once more, gathers his boyfriend's sweater in his fists and hangs there.

"Just because you come home complaining that you work with a bunch of crazy and immature kids who make your life hell does not mean you won't one day show up with twelve of your own on your parents' doorstep. I'd like to see the look on your dad's face that day."

Aramis snorts, which reassures Porthos.

"Twelve? Isn't that a bit much?"

"All right. Eleven, then. To make a football team out of them."

"Who'd be the coach? I can't play even if my life depended on it."

"That's not true. The fact that d'Artagnan stopped all of your kicks last weekend doesn't make you a bad player."

"Just a hopeless one."

"There's always room for improvement."

"And humiliation. God."

"Don't listen to you dad, Aramis," Porthos says very seriously after a few minutes of silent back-rubbing and hair-soothing. He hates watching Aramis stuggle with his feelings, what he wants, what makes him happy and what his family thinks. "Do whatever you want and to hell with him."

He shouldn't be talking like this, he realizes, when Aramis looks up, surprised. He thinks for a second.

"Yes, you're right. To hell with him."

Porthos kisses him again, full of pride and love and the man who's kissing him back, hanging on to his neck as if he's hanging on for dear life, it's the only person he wants to make happy in the world tonight. The only one he wants to focus on, the only one he wants to cherish and spoil.

It seems that they stay like that for ever. Aramis feels like a fool for letting his father's words cut at hime like that when he's all too aware that it's his life and he's the only one who gets to decide what he'll make of it. He's getting better at voicing his desires to his parents, at standing up for himself in his personal life. It's exhausting sometimes.

"Pizza?" he finally suggests. No matter how much chocolate they are and drank today, he's suddenly very hungry. And not for a healthy meal.

Aramis slides down to the floor to let Porthos get up. He would never say no to cold pizza leftovers. Aramis closes the book before following Porthos to the kitchen to gather supplies for another carpet picnic.

They're settling down, all thoughts of children and annoying fathers forgotten as the discussion is diverted to team sports and championships and players being transferred. Then, there's a knock on the front door.

It's almost ten, definitely too late for any visitor. Aramis's face lights up as Porthos goes to open the door.

"See? You survived the snow!" he greets a grumpy Athos who's balancing bags and plates on his hands while something tugs on his right wrist. "Holy shit! Where did you get that?"

"Christmas present," he mumbles. Porthos makes a serious effort not to laugh at his best friend's outraged and defeated face.

The puppy strains against its leash until Porthos picks it up, only to have the small dog pee on him out of excitement.

"Sorry," Athos mutters.

"No problem. Aramis is going to love it!"


-The exhibition and the catalogue refer to the 18th century French female painter Elisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun. She was amazing, such a good painter that Marie-Antoinette made her her official one. She made a lot of portraits of the queen and her children.