Aramis (romantichero) wrote in saveatlantisic, @ 2018-12-08 09:33:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log, *andrea, *melissa, aramis |
December 8th
characters. Aramis & Tristan Louis d’Herblay
time. mid-morning | location. Intake
rating. PG | status. COMPLETE
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Doing toddler switch-off was nothing new these days, Anne and Aramis had worked it to a fine art, co-parenting. She’d left him with a (potentially tearful) smile and rescued him from a little lion that waved at everyone as they passed the duo. Aramis had gleefully lifted Louis off his shoulders and offered him up to Anne when she came up, and only gave it a few words before brushing a hand across her shoulder and moving to the next room. He had already considered himself lucky - he had Porthos and Louis and their little family was something that made him smile several times a day. But it still knocked the air out of his stomach as soon as he saw his son, full grown, tousled hair, smooth features. Aramis leaned in the doorway, taking the sight in for a few long seconds, before laughing quietly. “I guess there really is no question that you’re mine, is there?” Growing up in Atlantis came with one huge benefit - waking up in the past with young parents and a toddler version of himself hadn’t sent Tristan into a mental tailspin. Honestly, he’d figured there was a chance everything would be set to rights in the morning, no matter what intake thought. But seeing his parents at this age was one hell of an experience and he was going to enjoy every second of it, however long it lasted. He was quick out of his chair, setting aside the random book he’d been using to keep himself occupied. “Were you, uh…” What a fucking question to start with, Tristan, really. He ruffled a hand up through the back of his wayward hair. “Was there still some doubt about that?” The smile on Aramis’ face grew, taking in every little quirk and mannerism Loui- Tristan, Anne had mentioned - had. He was still slow to move, stomping down the urge to throw himself into a hug, carefully planning each step so he didn’t scare the young man. It was always a delicate balancing act in his brain, one most people didn’t have. “I suppose there’s always a small measure of doubt, but nothing that mattered.” His smile blossomed into a grin. “You favor your mother young, but it’s good to know you grow into darker hair. And my good looks, of course. That’ll make ah- Porthos-” He faltered on the name, not sure if he should go with Porthos or something more familial here. He hoped for something more, but assumptions had a way of breaking his heart. He ended the sentence with a little smile anyway, “Happy.” Tristan smiled the same warm, crooked little smile he’d gotten from Aramis himself. He could tell his father was holding back, and to be fair he was too. There was always a little awkwardness to Tristan, no matter how many reasons he had to be comfortable. But this was one of the few people in his life he was the most at ease around. It was just so weird seeing him look like the old pictures from the mantle. “Dad likes to pretend I take after him more than you or mom.” He lifted his eyebrows, smirking wider. “The more ridiculous the comparison the better usually. You--Oh.” Realization passed across his face. “You’re still calling me Louis at this age, aren’t you? Would it--would you prefer that? I don’t want you guys to be uncomfortable.” Dad. Aramis couldn’t contain his grin if he wanted to, with that title. It was what he’d quietly hoped for, but not gotten those hopes too high, just in case. He moved in a little, to the room, trying not to rush forward for a hug when he wasn’t sure if it was welcome, but letting himself be present in the moment. “Your mother told me-- Tristan?”Aramis couldn’t exactly be annoyed at the idea of dropping the Louis, all things considered. “I want you to be called whatever you are most comfortable with, you don’t have to worry about me.” Though it was a very Aramis-like thing, to consider the feelings of others before his own. “Did you choose it yourself?” “Tristan. Or Tris. You--I mean I think you guys realized I couldn't go to school with just Louis for a name? I don't have the French rockstar vibe,” Tristan laughed. “I didn't pick Tristan, but I'm pretty happy with it.” He scratched at what little five o'clock shadow had formed since he'd ended up here before his morning shave and eyed the remaining distance between them. He'd noticed Aramis's inch closer but he wasn't sure how to make him more comfortable. That was usually his dad's specialty. Tristan wandered a little closer anyway. “It’s nice to see you like this, papa. I can't promise I won't tease the greying you at home when I go back, but I'm pretty sure that's only fair.” Aramis’ head dropped down as he laughed, the image of his son as a French rockstar popping straight to mind. There was a great deal of leather and sparkly gemstones involved in the picture that was painted, and he liked it. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. Hopefully it made things easier.” Looking up again, his smile waned a little and he walked forward, talking with his hands. “I like to think distinguished me can handle it. You can get away with anything now. It’s still a novelty to me that I’m even allowed to be present, let alone a father to you.” He was probably being too honest, but hoped he had that kind of relationship with Tristan, where he could do just that. “I’ve been worrying that I’ve been too greedy with you, that it might change. It-” He paused, clamping his mouth shut for a second so his eyes didn’t well up with tears. “I’m very glad to see how things have turned out. How you have turned out.” Tristan felt his own emotions well up in response. He scrunched up his mouth for a second, before beaming a laughing smile as he took the last few steps and wrapped his dad in a hug. “I should’ve expected you to make me feel weepy immediately,” he joked. It came out in Spanish, but he switched back to English without thinking about it. “You can’t be greedy with your own kid, papa. And I couldn’t ask for a better set of parents.” Giving a squeeze of his arms, he let go and backed up a step. “Don’t worry too much, okay? I’m not a Musketeer or out saving the day or anything, but I’m happy and I love what I do. And I’ve never felt unloved for even a second.” Tristan let go far too soon, in Aramis’ comparison, as he still wanted to hold on tight. But then he was laughing at his son’s Spanish - which was impeccable - and leaning back himself to cup Tristan’s face with his hand. “You’re perfect. I hope that given my own speckled past, I never gave you too much shit for not being a Musketeer.” He leaned forward to plant a kiss on Tristan’s forehead before letting his son have his personal space back. “What do you do? Did we still make you train? Obviously you didn’t learn languages from Porthos but hopefully you know how to punch someone properly.” “You don’t have to ask all the questions at once, papa,” Tristan smirked, lifting his hands defensively once Aramis had taken a step back. “I promise I’m not going to make a run for it. …I hate running.” As much as he was like Aramis, he’d never been the right kind of person to be a soldier, so it was a good thing they won the war long before it became an issue. He could go through the motions well enough but he had a rebellious streak when it wasn’t his loved ones telling him what to do. “I’m a photographer. I mostly set my own hours. I can punch, and shoot, and swordfight, though none as good as the three of you. I speak six languages. Oh, and I bake!” It was weird listing off his skills to his own father, but it made him laugh anyway. “But honestly, I’d travel all the worlds, just taking pictures if I could.” “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I got ahead of myself.” He clapped a hand on Tristan’s shoulder, and his face grew in admiration and pride with every single thing his son listed off. The baking part did make him falter and laugh, but then he was flooded with images of Porthos baking with a young Tristan and was back to beaming full of pride again. “Well, we certainly won the child lottery, didn’t we?” The idea was to tease, his smile to the top brink of affectionate. “I’ll try to keep my questions to one-at-a-time, from here on out. Porthos is on a mission and I promised Athos I’d bring you by immediately, do you want to go with me? See who else is going to surprise us?” “I mean, I also curse too much, can’t hold my liquor, and sleep like the dead?” Tristan smiled sheepishly. There were obviously worse things, probably even a couple that he was guilty of himself, but the pride in his father’s eyes was something he’d been determined to keep there for life. He had a number of years before a teenage Tristan decided to be unreasonable about being stuck on an island for his entire life. It was better to keep him happy and beaming for awhile. “But yeah, of course.” He smirked and moved to hold open the door for Aramis. “You’re going to have a hard time getting rid of me for as long as I’m here.” Aramis wrapped an arm around Tristan’s shoulders as they were out of the doorframe, squeezing a little with no intentions of getting further away unless he was asked to. “We’ll work on the liquor thing. But I don’t think you’ll see me complaining about any of that anytime soon.” |