Chapter Text
He dances. Sometimes, no more than a quick chassé when vacuuming, sometimes moving with a pretty girl in a dingy club in a way that would have made Swayze blush. Not many people know, or assume, but he can dance. More to the point, he would do it anyway, even if couldn’t. Porthos dances and it feels like a victory, every time.
This is new, though. Feeling the difference in the way the ground resists his feet; the constant sensation across the bared skin of his torso when he turns. Porthos has never danced in the rain before. There were times in his life that rainfall was not something to be celebrated. This, then, is the greatest victory of all.
He’s grinning, probably looks somewhere near to crazy, but he knows he is safe from onlookers. There’s CCTV, but as site foreman, he’s generally the only one to ever see that. The rain falls with sporadic pattering noises and it is like jazz to Porthos’ ears and he imagines moving his hips to husky brass. His body responds to the music in his head and also to his elation, to the thrill of moving like this over the ground where by day he works, sweats and swears with twenty other men. Twenty men who respond to Porthos’ accent, to his muscles, simply and easily, like they know who he is.
He vaguely picks up a noise behind him and wonders if his nocturnal gambolling is about to be witnessed by a prowling cat or fox. He likes the idea and spins, his boots kicking up soggy gravel in his wake.
“Oh.”
Cats don’t exclaim, but there is a feline aspect to the figure leaning against the side of the makeshift site office. Porthos freezes, definitely looks the idiot for a second, but he quickly pulls his arms in loose to his side; deceptively casual. There is no obvious alarm on the face of the man opposite him either, in fact Porthos feels the object of calm, even appreciative, scrutiny.
“Don’t stop on my account,” the interloper says with an easy smile.
Porthos snorts and takes a warning step closer. Still, the man shows no uncertainty. Porthos tries to assess the situation. His potential adversary displays no signs of aggression, but is confident and relaxed, which Porthos knows could signify a worse threat.
“How’d you get in here?” There are good fences all around, and cameras; Porthos oversaw the set-up of them.
Glancing up and to his left, where nearby buildings overshadow one corner of the site, the man brings his finger up and then down again, whistling. Porthos looks and considers that he could do it himself if pushed: clear the fence by jumping from one of the adjacent roofs. Not the nicest landing though, he imagines. He shakes his head. “You’re still trespassing, mate.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No, actually.”
“You’re a licensed dancer then?” This is asked with a grin, peppered with both mockery and admiration. Porthos is being teased, he realises, on his own territory.
“Foreman by day, dancer by night.”
“But with no audience? That seems a shame.”
“Not for me.” Porthos stalks over and switches on one of the small floodlights they use when behind on work in the winter evenings. It cuts an angle across the trespasser’s face, causing him to squint for a second or two. It also confirms Porthos’ growing suspicion that his unlooked-for spectator is conspicuously handsome. He crosses the remaining distance between them and stares impassively. He is taller and broader than the other man, whose back is against the wall of the office. He also has the surety of standing on familiar ground. Still, the man smiles at him, but it is a lighter thing, with the smallest hint of respectful trepidation.
“Time to go,” Porthos states firmly.
The man nods, yet says, “Perhaps you’d rather a dance partner, than an audience.”
Porthos has to blink a couple of times to let the audacity truly sink into his consciousness. He barks out a laugh and looks away. When he looks back, soft brown eyes linger a moment too long on his lips. Porthos hides his surprise and cannot tell if the other is aware of his tell. In another time and place, Porthos would be so happily flattered. He shakes his head.
“At least tell me what the music was. Something jazzy I was imagining.”
“I guess.”
“Quite uptempo, your moves were almost Latin, but I don’t think there was a rumba in your head.”
“Nah,” Porthos agrees, suddenly, almost painfully, intrigued. Or perhaps just allowing himself to accept that he has been intrigued all along. “I prefer something a bit more rugged, brassy. A touch of the blues to it.”
He gets a nod and the man is not leaning casually anymore, his back is straight and it has brought him a dangerous inch closer to Porthos. He makes a small sound, as if he is tasting Porthos’ music. “A little bit of art and a whole lot of heart,” he whispers with his eyes closed.
“Yeah,” Porthos swallows, “yeah,” and as the man’s hips start to sway, Porthos’ hands reach out and anchor themselves on his body, instinctively beginning to direct the motion. The feeling of pulling the man’s body into his own, however, the firm press of the other’s body against his, brings him back to himself. It is one thing to appreciate the little thrill of his own moonlit dance, but if anyone else looks at the camera footage at any point, being seen dancing, half naked, with another man would probably be pushing his luck.
His fingertips regretfully press into the slightly damp fabric of the man’s t-shirt to push him back. As he does so, the man whispers no twice and casts a stricken look up at Porthos. Something in Porthos’ stomach flutters a little. He can’t lie to himself, he doesn’t want to see desperation on this man’s face. He hesitates a moment and the man before him, once so confident, doesn’t meet his gaze. So Porthos keeps a set of fingers anchored in the other’s clothes as he moves over to switch the floodlight off.
Lit by moonlight and distant streetlights again, the man’s features glow starkly in the darkness and the air surrounding them seems to drop in temperature. A shiver vibrates against his fingertips and he pulls the other man in tight, moving his hand to his lower back. It is intimate, but mostly hidden by the otherness of night, and it feels natural that when Porthos speaks, his jaw brushes against tendrils of the other’s hair that have curled in the rain. “What’s your name?” he asks.
“Aramis,” the other replies, and Porthos cannot help but smile to hear a name almost as unusual as his own.
“I’m Porthos,” he mumbles in reply.
“Hello,” the greeting is said with a smile that makes Aramis’ eyes crinkle, banishing any hint of coldness, of artifice, that Porthos might have seen on his face before.
The dance is slow. Whoever’s music they are moving to, it is not the music that had Porthos twisting before, flinging raindrops from his arms. Aramis’ hands are warm on the rain-cooled skin of Porthos’ back and Porthos’ heart is beating too fast. He was unsure who was leading whom at first, but now he feels clearly how Aramis’ body flows in response to Porthos’ movements. A grin keeps pulling at his lips, at odds with the tempo of the dance, and Porthos wonders if Aramis can sense it, with his cheek close to Porthos’, his eyes closed. He doesn’t mind. It is what the night was supposed to be about, reveling in his own happiness.
He whirls them suddenly and Aramis lets out a surprised breath but keeps with him. Porthos thinks it cannot be the first time he has been led by a man, but he doesn’t dwell on the thought. Instead, he spins them twice in quick succession, until Aramis is laughing, a little breathless. He is sure footed, despite being unused to the uneven ground of the site as Porthos is. Porthos wonders when the rain stopped. He moves a hand to the nape of Aramis’ neck, finding the thicker waves of his hair there. It affects the posture but Aramis responds by lightly kneading the powerful muscles running down Porthos’ back, and Porthos gives up the ballroom pretense, letting a whisper of a groan escape his lips.
Porthos fights the desire. He has never let himself be the kind of man that uses a dance as an excuse to grind, to grope. He finds their previous rhythm again and Aramis seems content, offering no comment. There is, however, a new frisson of mutually held and understood attraction running through both their bodies, Porthos feels confident of it. He is spinning them again, enough so that if he glances to the side their surroundings are nothing more than a dim blur, only Aramis in his arms is in perfect focus. He doesn’t stop until the side of one of his feet meets the edge of the step up to the office and he has to still them to prevent Aramis tripping.
“Where did you learn to do this?” Aramis asks, not moving away from Porthos’ light hold.
Porthos shrugs, a habitual action. “A few helpful friends. Knowing the right people, the rights clubs. Years ago now. Why? Can’t see me in ballroom classes?”
“Not exactly.”
“What about you then?” Porthos asks.
“I’ve always been a fan of anything that keeps me moving. Football, dancing,” he trails off suggestively, then continues more soberly, “these days, it’s more about the…” He gestures to the roofs again.
“Parkour?” Porthos guesses.
Aramis hums a little in assent. “Something like that.”
“It’s just, something’s bugging me,” says Porthos.
“Oh?” Porthos earns himself a coyly raised eyebrow.
“You jumped in ‘ere. How were you plannin’ on getting out?”
“I thought I would ask the foreman to escort me.” The flirty smile comes out again, an expression that looks very comfortable on Aramis’ face.
“’Course you did,” Porthos mutters, shaking his head fondly at the beautiful strangeness of the situation; of Aramis. Then he shivers, the lack of motion letting his bare skin register the coolness of the night air.
Aramis gently rubs his upper arms. “Time to go,” he says.
A question falters before it gets to Porthos’ lips and instead he nods. “I’ve got to lock up and stuff.”
Aramis nods and steps away, and of course Porthos needs him to, but he has to hide a frown, all the same. He pulls his discarded shirt back on and doggedly goes through the routine of securing the site, half expecting to find at the end that Aramis has disappeared, scaling a fence when Porthos’ back is turned. Yet Aramis is right behind him when he does turn, patient and apparently calm, dark eyes reflecting the soft glow of the remaining lights.
Porthos shoves his hands in his pockets as they start walking, unasked questions clogging up his throat but not quite stripping the smile from his eyes. He knows what he wants to do. He wants to take Aramis back to his little flat, play some of Ella Fitzgerald’s most sultry numbers and find out if he can keep to the rhythm with his eyes looking straight into Aramis’. He wants to lie him down on the powder blue comforter on his bed and watch every flex of bared muscle as he dances under Porthos’ attention.
He breathes in the sobering air deeply. He has no idea where Aramis lives; no idea if he would consider bringing Porthos there. All he really knows about Aramis, assuming even that is true, is that he is a man who enjoys running around cities at night, flaunting boundaries as casually as an urban fox. And he dances like he can hear Porthos’ own music.
Porthos shivers. Maybe Aramis has a place where he takes his would be lovers, where he pleasures them in full view of the dispassionate eyes of CCTV. Porthos stops and takes hold of Aramis’ elbow. He knows what kind of man he is.
“Where are we goin’?”
Aramis shrugs and looks away, clearly discomforted. The departure of his charm is more reassuring than anything else to Porthos. He seems to be debating something internally. A few seconds pass and he shrugs again and laughs.
“I have a confession to make.” He hesitates, perhaps waiting for that to sink in. Porthos braces himself as Aramis continues, “I was feeling rather… restless earlier. I just wanted to run and clear my head and, to be entirely honest, I am not one hundred percent sure of where we are.”
It is Porthos’ turn to laugh out loud, as much in relief as amusement. “What exactly would you have done if you hadn’t found some idiot dancing on ‘is own in the middle of a building site?”
With a roll of his eyes, Aramis pats a zipped pocket in his trousers. “I do have my phone, like all good modern itinerants.”
“Bet it’s out of battery.”
“It is not,” he removes it and checks, “it is only almost out of battery.”
“Right then,” says Porthos, more decisively than he feels, “my place is a twenty minute walk. There’s one of them s’pposedly American diners on the way that’ll still be open, if you want to grab something to eat. ‘S a good place as any to wait for a cab too, if you want.”
Let them have an out. He can’t remember who told him that, years ago, when his muscles were developing as quickly as his wits. Let them have an out and if they still stay, they really want to stay.
Aramis starts walking and looks back until Porthos is with him, stride for stride. “Do they have a jukebox at this faux diner?”
“Nah. I mean, they do, but it’s always busted.”
“Then I can make do without the pitstop, if you can.”
The calmness, what Porthos had taken for overconfidence earlier, has resettled over Aramis. Porthos finds it so attractive. He has never known anybody to be so open and distant, all at once. He quickens his stride, eagerness firing his muscles, then checks himself. He always has to check his pace, walking with somone, except – except Aramis is keeping with him, toe to toe.