du_vallon | (no subject)

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He hasn't been able to eat a single thing since he returned to his usual self. He thinks it probably has something to do with the fact that he'd stuffed his face constantly as a teenager and now that he's grown again, everything is rebelling on him because he doesn't know what to do with all the food he'd inhaled, thinking he wouldn't get a chance to before it's gone. Rubbing his aching belly, he plods through the empty apartment, tidying up some of the disaster he'd made, going to find the money he'd stashed away along with some of the nicer jewels.

It's like he's a magpie, it's what it was. He's not even surprised, honestly. He also digs out all the photos on the phone he'd taken of Athos and Aramis, things while they slept to use as blackmail, if necessary. Later, he's going to have to go out and repay all the businesses he'd borrowed from.

For now, though, he just wants to lie down. Groaning, he tugs on the blanket and curls up on the chaise, everything hurting from a sudden growth spurt and a ridiculous amount of food in his belly.

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Sitting at the kitchen table not far away as he balances the month’s accounts, Athos allows Porthos to rest for time in quiet. He remembers vividly the tumultuous experience of being thrust back into adulthood, the barrage of memories, the limbs that do not quite feel one’s own. Rest is what Porthos needs, for both his body and his heart.

But finally the books are balanced, and Athos rises to make tea. He pours two mugs and brings one to Porthos. “I told you not to eat so much. More than once.” Perching on the arm of the sofa, he holds out the mug to the other man.

Porthos is currently trying desperately to hide his face in his chest, tucking himself into as small a ball as he can possibly manage as his stomach whimpers complaint. He reaches out for the mug, setting it on the table before returning to his pathetic state, giving Athos a pitiful set of puppy-dog eyes. "How was I to know when the food was going to run out?" he points out.

"You never knew when food would vanish, best to eat as much as you could to stave off the bad days. Or weeks."

“You might have believed us,” Athos says with a gentle curve of a smile. He knows quite well that that would have been easier said than done. That younger Porthos trusted no one, least of all those who were kind to him - and with good reason. With a small shake of his head, he brushes his fingers through Porthos’ curls. It’s a relief to be able to do so again.

Porthos gives Athos a dubious look from where he lies. "You were both being way too kind and generous with no ulterior motives. You know where I come from, that means danger. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop," he says, letting out a keening noise as he leans into the hand. "I didn't trust you at all. I was taking advantage of a warm bed, a roof over my head, and food."

Athos continues to stroke Porthos’ hair absently, sipping his own brandy-laced tea that he holds in his free hand. “I know,” he says, quite aware that they could have done or said nothing to assuage that young man’s fears. Not until far more time had passed, at least.

“What made you learn to trust?” Porthos had lived a lifetime in those years between his youth and joining the musketeers. Something must have set him on this path that now allows him to see more good than evil in his fellow man.

"The infantry," he admits, seeing as being in the infantry had showed him how to obey orders, how to serve a cause, and moreover, that in order to be successful, he had to be willing to trust the others and hope they would trust him in return. "I mean, I trusted them, but it wasn't until I met you and Aramis that I learned how to put my life on the line, because I knew that you would protect me without flinching."

"Sometimes, people wouldn't, given...well, you know," he mumbles, gesturing to his skin.

“Some people are cowards,” Athos says gruffly, refusing to acknowledge any other reason for anyone to turn away from Porthos. The soldiers in question might have called it something different, but cowardly was what it had been. “No real soldier would leave a fellow man unprotected.” And it that meant half the king’s men were no real soldiers, then so be it.

Porthos stares at his hands in his lap, the both of them still covering his stomach as he rubs away the aches, trying to make sense of everything that had happened. "Yeah, well, they were none too happy with me when Treville came and picked me for the regiment over them. There's a reason I don't exactly break bread with my old army pals," he notes.

“And so you were forced to befriend Aramis and I,” Athos quips. In truth, he knows that they were all loners when they met, friendless and lonely for their own reasons, and that is what had drawn them together. In the case of Aramis and Athos, they had chosen their own exile from companionship, but Porthos had never even had the option. Most men steered clear of him on principle.

Athos knows all of this already, but it makes his blood boil to be reminded.

More gently he adds, “I am glad you did."

He does his best to lever himself up into sitting, but his stomach protests the movement, growling for the severe ache and pain that causes. He gives a small sound of displeasure, but reaches out for Athos, giving him a sad little look. "You were both right there, but I still felt so isolated and alone, scared and trying to figure out how to build myself protection. I'd started getting whatever I could, so I could blackmail the both of you."

“Did you now?” Shifting closer to slide his hand over Porthos’ shoulders, Athos struggles not to smile. There is nothing amusing about the situation that led that younger Porthos to remain so untrusting, but his imagination paints an absurdist picture: that wary boy going through their things, seeking some evidence that could be used as blackmail, as though such a thing could exist here, where judgment seems extinct. “Find anything interesting?"

"The sheer number of sex toys and bottles of alcohol were actually a bit frightening. I had thoughts that you might try and drug me at night and take advantage, so I was plotting how to get there first. I started sleeping with a knife," he admits, seeing as there's that whole bit where it had looked pretty damning, to young eyes.

“Thank you for deciding not to stab us,” Athos deadpans, but as he lightly strokes Porthos’ arm, his thoughts return to the small, frightened boy that had been in their charge these past few days. He had wanted so badly to be brave, poor lad, but in the face of so much strangeness, could not shake them. Who could blame him, after all he had already suffered?

"You never came at me in the middle of the night," Porthos points out logically, rubbing his stomach and letting out another little whine, sighing as he rests his cheek closer to Athos as he stares at him balefully. "I hope I didn't say anything that offended you or making you feel awkward or strange."

Athos scoffs. "We knew what we were up against." Had he longed to have the real Porthos back? Of course. But not for a moment had he blamed the boy in their care, not for that, nor for anything he had said out of fear and loneliness.

"You did try very hard to shock us," he adds with the smallest smirk. "But you underestimated what you were up against."

"You, especially, were all staunchly respectable and put together. I wanted to pull you apart," Porthos confesses, because he would've had fun dismantling him. "There's uh," he begins, a bit of a blush on his cheeks, "there's some stuff in my room that belongs to both you and Aramis that should probably be claimed back. Things I got a bit magpie about."

“I was wondering where my tie pin went,” Athos says mildly, neither surprised nor offended that the boy had seen fit to steal trinkets and baubles. He strokes Porthos’ hair, silent as he watches the man. Athos thinks he can still see a sheen of guilt in Porthos’ eyes, no matter how much he insists that Porthos has nothing to feel guilty for. “You did no more harm than I did when I was similarly turned,” he says at last. Olivier de la Fere had been shy and proud where youthful Porthos had been brash and suspicious, and they had acted out in different ways, but Athos knows that he had caused harm - much more harm than running off with a few trinkets ever could. In comparison, Porthos has no reason at all to feel such guilt.

"It's there, along with a wallet clip and a few little trinkets, like some of Aramis' chains," Porthos admits, "some of the sex toys, too," he adds in a rush, but those had been curiosity, especially when he had started to use them on himself. "I'm just glad it's all over. I wish it could've been even more harmless, like me having my wits about me."

“We are all ourselves again,” Athos says, sympathetic to Porthos’ lingering guilt, but determined to move on, past these strange obstacles that Darrow insists on throwing their way.

“More tea?"

Porthos shakes his head, his stomach still a touch too problematic for that. "I'd prefer if you just sort of came here and we could curl up," he says, thinking the heat of someone else's body might make up for the fact that he still feels miserable both physically and a little bit mentally, yet.

Athos inclines his head in understanding, moving to sit beside Porthos and coaxing the man to rest his head in Athos’ lap.

“Better?"

He lifts his head and settles it back down with a groan, his body protesting the moving around. Half of him feels awkward, like his muscles are straining from lack of use when really, it's just that he's grown an awful lot in a small amount of time. "Yeah," he admits, pleased with the new position. "You're gonna touch my hair, yeah?"

"I wanted all this affection then, too, I just didn't know how to ask for it."

With a tiny smile, Athos returns to stroking his hair. “I know,” he says. The lives Athos and Porthos had led as children could not have been more different, but they managed to have this one thing in common. Both of them had learned to hold themselves back for their own reasons, and in their own way.

Porthos inhales deeply and releases his breath, feeling oddly young despite being back to his grown self. "Was I cute?" he prompts, smirking up at Athos from his upside down position. "Come on. I know you want to tell me the truth about that."

“Like a frightened puppy,” Athos answers with an echoed smirk. Both as a boy and a man, Porthos has an ego the size of his big heart, and Athos is not about to puff it up further with lies and exaggerations. That young Porthos may have tried to present himself as a worldly, grown man, full of confidence, but Athos had seen through it. Porthos had been little more than a child, greener than d’Artagnan had been when they met him.

"Puppies are still cute," Porthos protests, but he curls into Athos' lap a little tighter, breathing out and feeling content. He sighs, though, knowing he can't avoid the actual issues plaguing at him. "It made me wonder what would've happened, if I wound up not getting out of the Court. Maybe I only would've met you when you arrested me."

Athos is quiet for a time, stroking Porthos’ hair as he contemplates the sorrow behind these musings. Even if he had remained in the Court, Porthos would have showered everyone he could in kindness and warmth - Athos refuses to imagine otherwise - but his life would not have been a joyous one. It would have been a short one, too.

And where would Athos be with no Porthos in his life? Athos had been trapped in despair when they met, and Aramis had been as well. Who knows what would have happened to them without Porthos’ warming influence? “Or perhaps I would not have remained a musketeer for long, and someone else would have had the privilege.” Perhaps, he cannot quite say, I would have died without you.

Porthos makes a quiet sound, imagining what might have happened if he'd let Flea convince him to stay. He'd have kept thieving, kept living a life without honour. He doesn't think he could've endured it that long. "You would've still been a musketeer. You and Aramis and d'Artagnan, under Treville's steady watch. You don't need me for that."

“But I did need you.” Athos swallows against the tightness in his throat; he hates thinking about those early days in the musketeers, days when he would have welcomed death. God knows, he had almost gotten his wish a few times. Athos may be a prideful man, but he knows that he once needed looking after. And no one had looked after him as well as Porthos. “As did Aramis.”

He clears his throat. “For my own selfish reasons, you see, I am glad you left that place."

"You would've found someone else," Porthos says, sure of that. "I know you think you needed me, but I'm just glad I was there for you. I just wanted someone to be," he murmurs, thinking of Aramis after Savoy and Athos in his grief. "Selfishly, I'm happy it was me," he admits quietly. "I needed it."

“Then we are both selfish, and better for it.” Athos closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath. The darkness is always there, waiting to be called, seeking a chance to break through his defenses. But for now, he beats back the dark. Porthos did not come to an unhappy end in the Paris slums; Athos was not forced to grope in that terrible darkness alone.

He opens his eyes to gaze softly down at Porthos. “Try to get some rest,” he suggests.

Porthos isn't sure how much sleep he's going to get, but he latches onto Athos' hand and squeezes tight enough, refusing to let go because he doesn't want him to go away and he doesn't want anything to change. "Now if only I could get a guarantee that Aramis wouldn't have to suffer the same fate. The charm might be endless."

“He would be insufferable,” Athos agrees with a curve of a grin. Considered seriously, though, the thought disturbs him, as do all the strange transformations Darrow bestows at random. Is there anything worse than being toyed with in such a fashion? He shakes his head a little. “I wish,” Athos speaks slowly, “I wish the magic of this place would leave us in peace."

Peace. It is still a strange concept to Athos. Too often these days it seems nearly in his grasp, only to be snatched away at the last moment.

"I don't know. I wouldn't mind seeing you turning into a woman," Porthos mildly notes. "So long as you kept your wits about you. I'd treat you so good," he promises, giving Athos a contented smile from his current position. "Especially seeing as you'd be so very ladylike," he teases.

Athos makes a face. For all Porthos insistence - on more than one occasion - he cannot see the appeal of such a transformation. Why, in God’s name, would he wish to become a woman? Even knowing the change would be temporary, he would be desperate to claw his way out of that unfamiliar skin. “I damned well hope not,” he scowls, tempted to tip Porthos onto the floor for the mere suggestion.

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