du_vallon | (no subject)

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Soft fluttering wakes Porthos up from a strange dream.

He's with Aramis and Athos in it, back in Paris, and they're running about after some murderer or another prisoner. It's like things are normal, except that they're not, because in the dream, Aramis seems distant, as if he's looking off for something else. Athos in the dream seems to notice nothing wrong with this, shrugging and remarking that with Aramis' heart being taken, it's only natural for him to be distracted.

Porthos wants to open his mouth and say that he's not in love, the man's gone, there's no one, but he can't speak. Before he can demand whether it's true, something crashes to the ground, shatters, and wakes Porthos from the strained dream. Breathless, he reaches out with weary eyes and fingers the broken mug in pieces, wondering if a bird got in. Slowly, a feather descends its way past his eyes, only giving more credence to his theory, but even that vanishes a moment later when Porthos feels the twitch and the weight at his back.

Heart racing a bit faster, he reaches a hand back and finds a great extension of wings sprouting from his shoulderblades and down his spine, bracketed there and sewn into the muscles of his body like they've always been there. Cursing under his breath, he hurries to the nearest reflection, watching in panic and awe as he stretches his arms out and the wings stretch with him, a span of six feet and then some in white and gray soft feathers. Cursing more, he grabs his trousers and hauls them on, followed by his boots. There's no way a shirt will do, so he steals Aramis' blue sash and works at tying it around his torso to hide as much as he can before taking his weapons with him and bolting out of the apartment without bothering to lock it.

He can't stay there.

This is Aramis' fault. It has to be. Or his God. Hand over the cross on his chest, the St. Jude medallion, Porthos lingers for only the briefest of moments before he bumps and stumbles his way out of doors, heading straight for the park they'd showed up in the very first day. Maybe Aramis' God has heard his thoughts, maybe he's heard what he wants and what he wants from Aramis, and this is some sort of punishment? Maybe he's meant to play some other role?

By the time he reaches the park, he's exhausted with questions and sinks down onto a bench, leaning his head between his knees and giving the wings space to expand and exist without being pressed against anything. Maybe this is just punishment for keeping his mouth shut. Maybe he should tell Aramis what he really wants and these cursed things will go away, to some other person who actually has faith.

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It's the silence that follows the noise that wakes him.

Aramis is well used to the clamor of Porthos in their apartment. Quiet as the man might be when he wants to, he's loud in the mornings, even his yawns a thunderous sound, so when Aramis hears Porthos' brief scuffle and nothing further, he sits up at once.

There's no trace of the man in the apartment. There are, curiously, the ruins of a mug, several feathers, and the absence of Aramis' sash, none of which he can find any pattern to, but it sets Aramis' teeth on edge.

He dresses quickly.

Porthos is not to be found in the little shop that sells the coffees he favors, nor is he at the bakery. He is not at the horrid yoga studio, and neither is he at Jim', which seems unfair when it took Aramis three tries to manage a call on his little phone.

Porthos is also not at church, and Aramis has almost given up, traipsing home in defeat when he spies a span of something large and white in the park. It's no bird. It's nothing Aramis ever expected to see on this side of the divine, and he very nearly drops to his knees.

It's the curly head of hair perched atop those broad wings that has him staggering forward, only to freeze at the clear sight of his friend seated on a bench, an enormous pair of wings folded against his back.

"Mon dieu."

It's fear and worry that hit Porthos as soon as he hears Aramis' godly cry. His face crumples, knowing that he cannot run now. He could fly, he supposes, but it's not like Porthos even knows if these things do that. He looks up tentatively, face a picture of misery and guilt and longing, because Aramis looks so stunned and incredible in a way that makes Porthos think he's been so stupid not to just ask.

Not like he can do it now, infected with these faith-filled things, or whatever it is they are. "Aramis, get out of here," he growls at him.

Aramis shakes his head, gripping the rosary hanging from his throat in mute refusal, and takes an unsteady step forward. It makes no sense at all - Aramis is certain that in all their years, Porthos has never been anything but a man, if the best man - he's never been an angel, but there's no arguing with the sight before him now.

"Porthos," he finally breathes, needing more than ever to name him, know him. "You - how?"

He doesn't know how, that's the whole point of it. He glares at Aramis, cross with this, with the weight at his back and how sensitive they feel, and it's like the air around him has gone warmer with his irritation, like he's boiling it. "I don't know, Aramis," he replies heavily. "I woke up from a dream about you and they were there, like they've grown in since I was a child," he says, accusatory and helpless at once. "What have you done to me?" he asks, voice bordering on tinny.

"Not I," says Aramis with another step forward. He lifts his hands, settling them on Porthos' shoulders before they reach any further. "Only God could do this, surely."

He searches Porthos' eyes. "You are certain they were never there before? Not even in your dreams?"

It looks like the wings like it when Porthos is touched.

Or maybe that's not the wings, but Porthos himself. He calms when Aramis lays his fingers on his bare shoulders, as if giving proof that Aramis is a good influence on him. "I've never dreamt of wings," he replies, thinking it's more the opposite. He's had nightmares about hellfire and damnation, but never wings. Aramis is so close and Porthos wants so much and is so fearful, but he knows what's happening to him is impossible. "I thought maybe this was because of you," he says. "Some sort of punishment, from God."

Aramis frowns, his dark eyes sweeping along those magnificent wings. Unfurled, they must span twice as wide as Porthos is tall, and again he feels a weakness in his knees. "Because of me?" he echoes, struggling to understand it, even as he's unable to look away. His fingers twitch, curling tighter against Porthos' shoulder lest he touch those feathers out of turn.

"Surely becoming an angel is a sign of favor, not condemnation."

"For you, maybe," Porthos points out, shifting forward to deliver the words, which slides Aramis' hand over the juncture of wing and bone and skin, the reaction instant when Porthos feels it and the wings shudder and he shivers. The touch, simple as it is, is like the sort of intimate touch he's only ever thought about. "It's like every thought," Porthos struggles to get the hoarse words out, "every dream, God's been watching and thought to turn me into something else, so I don't taint you."

Is that what this is? Is that what it could be? Now that Aramis' hand is on his wing, Porthos finds he doesn't want it to leave and the wings seem to respond to that, folding inwards to maximize the touch.

"What on earth are you talking about?" Transfixed by the wings as Aramis is, every start and shudder as keenly felt as if it were his own, Porthos' misery draws him back to himself. The man is upset, frightened, no doubt, and Aramis cannot blame him for feeling overcome.

Leaving those wings, he cups Porthos' stubbled cheeks. "How could you ever taint me?"

He's not sure what he should do. Honesty has driven Porthos through every measure of his life. He'd learned early to say what you meant, what you felt, and never lie if you could help it. It had set him apart from his days at Court and it had been an important part of becoming a Musketeer. Now, though, he's more frightened than he's been in ages, even knowing that Aramis doesn't shy away from men.

The wings seem to be some extension of himself and they expand, curling around the both of them as if to offer some privacy. He doesn't want to look at them, but there's a fascination in how he can see bone through the ridges, like they really are a part of him. "The things I want," he manages, a bit dry-mouthed, completely scared. "I thought I'd left them behind a decade ago."

Aramis steps deeper into the circle of Porthos' wings, all but forgotten now save for the sudden curtain they present between them and the world beyond. Aramis' focus is on Porthos - the unusual tremor in his voice, that joyful mouth downturned and eyes cast away.

Aramis cards his fingers through Porthos' hair. "I did not know you then," he says. "You still belonged to the Court. To your Flea and your Charon." Aramis' eyebrows lift. "Is that what this is? You still desire him. Or - " Aramis' brow furrows, but he does not let go. "Men like him."

Edited 2014-05-27 03:55 (UTC)

The sound torn from him is soft and base, a whimper when Aramis touches his hair like no one's done since Alice. She had laughed when she'd discovered the reaction she could elicit, winding her fingers through the curls with ease. He misses her, he does, but she hadn't been willing to be a soldier's wife. Not many would. "I desire someone else," he gets out. "And I think it's enough that I desire him that God wants me to bear these things on my back."

They're heavy, so much more than he's used to bearing, and his strength is capable of men this size, just not constantly on his back. "I haven't belonged to either of them in years," he feels compelled to remind Aramis.

"You don't believe in my God," Aramis reminds him, but his gaze falls to the cross on Porthos' chest, the wood pale against all that dark skin. Porthos speaks of desire, and Aramis' fingers are still tangled in his hair, pulling just hard enough to tear another sound from Porthos' throat, and Aramis has to draw a breath.

"Let's go home," he says suddenly, unable to have this conversation in the open where anyone may look at them, at Porthos. "Please."

"Don't have to believe in something to know it can do damage to you," Porthos says, seeing as he hasn't really held belief in a lot of things, but they still act like forces from the outside in. His breath catches when Aramis tugs on his hair, all these things that he hadn't thought of in 1630 rushing forward because he won't be hung here for an indecent look. Him, even, with his history and his affiliations and his skin. If he does anything, no one will show up to hang him.

He nods, suddenly, which has the effect of dislodging Aramis' fingers from his hair. His wings unfurl, but instead of tucking in again, they go wide, as if he's preparing for flight when he just wants to do what Aramis has asked. "I'm sorry I ran," he offers, grudgingly. "I got scared."

"It's all right," says Aramis, carefully insinuating a hand against Porthos' lower back, clear of the wings. Porthos looks ready to take flight at any moment, and then where will they be?

"Please just come home," he says, urging Porthos forward, away from the park and towards their apartments. "Everything will be all right. You trust me, do you not?"

"With everything but your taste in women," Porthos replies, feeling better for the mild jibe to Aramis' dangerous proclivities. He knows he can't avoid his confession, made freely and to an aborted man of God, but he's happy to lean back into Aramis' hand, the wings ruffling and adjusting as they walk, thinking of home and how that's really all that he's ever wanted.

He can't get too far ahead of himself. After all, Aramis is adventure and danger and second story windows and Cardinal's mistresses. It's not like he's lining up for Sunday dinners and whatever else Porthos is after -- which, he's still not entirely sure on. "And," he adds, "I'm sorry I took your sash. Figured it'd be the best thing to cover me up. Nearly took your suspenders," he admits.

"I'm not certain what those would have covered," says Aramis with a smile, grateful for the early hour as they hurry along. There aren't many yet on the streets, and those that dare to gawp at Porthos are soon dissuaded by the murder in Aramis' eyes, and they manage to make it to their door unmolested.

"Here," says Aramis, opening the door, ducking as best he can the unfamiliar sweep of wings. "Let me get you something to settle you, some wine or some tea."

"Would've kept my trousers up without a belt," Porthos feels inclined to say, seeing as the wings keep getting stuck a bit, catching fabric and making him hiss and wince. He keeps his head down through the walk home, taking up the whole path as they walk, feeling like he's back in Paris again with all eyes on him for being unnatural.

It takes some fine shuffling and shifting to get himself back in the apartment, figuring out how to command the wings to fold, but when he goes to sit on the chaise, they pinch and press, cramping up against him in a way that's unpleasant. So instead, he stands, lets the wings stretch out as he stretches the muscles in his back, the wingspan full and shadowing Aramis in the kitchen as he wiggles his fingers, stretched as far as his arms will go. "Tea, maybe," he says. "Not sure I want to drink right now."

Aramis nods and busies himself with preparing it, pouring water into the kettle and turning knobs, bringing down glasses from the cupboards until his hands are steady again. He plunks a bag of loose leaf into Porthos' cup, and is reaching for another when he turns and sees Porthos with his wings fully outstretched.

Aramis tips brandy into his own glass, taking a hasty sip of it before he tends to the singing kettle. "Here," he says, coming forward at last with the steaming cup. "Perhaps if you sat at the counter, you would have more room for - " Aramis' gaze strays back to those feathers. White, or tan? It's hard to say, the color nearly opalescent this close. "For these."

Porthos tracks the way Aramis is looking at the things on his back and isn't sure what to make of it. Is it curiosity or something else? Porthos sinks into the seat, sagging forward with the weight on his back, his fingers cupping the teacup and the wings flap once and settle, sending a frisson of wind through the room that he's created.

He scowls, hating that he doesn't know how to control them, never mind where they've come from. Now that he's back inside the privacy of their own apartment, he stands again, just long enough to unknot the blue sash around his torso, unwinding it and dropping it onto the chaise, giving himself time at the mirror now that his bravery's been increased to look at how the wings have joined with his body. No one could put them there. No one but God, he supposes.

"Maybe I will have brandy," he says, coming back to the counter.

"Easy, my friend," says Aramis, laying a hand on Porthos' shoulder, "I will get it. Perhaps we'll let you grow used to controlling your wings before we let you near the glass, hmm?"

Pouring him a rather large portion, Aramis brings it to where Porthos stands. Lit as he is by the morning sun where it streams through the window, with broad, bare shoulders and head topped with sweet curls, even without the wings Porthos would look angelic. Aramis crosses himself without thought, offering up the brandy.

"Don't know that I'm ever going to control it," Porthos says, a frightened look flashing over his face when the thought settles in that this might be permanent. That grips his breath and his throat and it feels constricted, reaching for the brandy and drinking it back twice as fast as he normally would, not helped along by Aramis acting like it's some holy offering.

"Stop it," he scowls, wing expanding enough to act as an extension of his thoughts, smacking the flank of Aramis' leg with a loud flap. "I'm not one of your saints."

Aramis jumps, both for the smack and the sudden shadow cast by those great wings, scowling for a moment right back. "Perhaps I'm not praying to you," he mutters, taking a drink from his own glass before refilling them both.

"You make for a striking sight."

"Yeah, well, you should be used to it, then, seeing as you're always striking," Porthos mutters, half to himself as he takes the refilled glass and sinks down into the stool at the counter, sighing with the worry that this is something he'll have to live with forever.

He worries at the rim of the cup with his thumb in constant circles. "What if this is forever?" he asks aloud. "What if I'm always going to be like this now?"

"Then you will be a man impossible to ignore," replies Aramis, though he believes this has always been true of Porthos. "But let us not jump to conclusions. I have heard others here speak many times of strange, but shortlived events. This may yet be one of them."

Walking carefully forward lest he startle another feathery outburst from his friend, Aramis takes the stool next to him. "Of more concern to me is what you said earlier. Porthos, do you truly believe that God would punish you for caring for someone?"

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