du_vallon | (no subject)

The whole situation has become more and more frightening, to Porthos. The year seems to be more modern than Porthos could have ever dreamt up, and now he's got some kind of quarters. The lucky thing is that they're above the ones Aramis apparently now owns, despite neither of them having paid for any of this. It's enough to do his head in and that's even before he thinks of all the strange folk he's met today.

After briefly inspecting his own small quarters and divesting of his outer layers, Porthos locks the door and wanders downstairs to Aramis', picking the lock with a few easy twists of his fingers, letting him in while his mind starts to hurt from the hangover and the ache of too many changes.

"'Mis," Porthos calls out as he wanders in. "Don't suppose your place comes equipped with a whole lot of wine, because I need a glass or two. Maybe the whole bottle." He collapses down onto the sofa and pries his boots off, without even bothering to ask if he's welcome. It's not as if he ever asked at the garrison and now's going to be no different. "Every day, in Paris, every day, I knew what to do. Here? Aramis, I don't know what's happening," he confesses, as scared as he's been since he set out on the streets with nothing and no one behind him.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Aramis doesn't like speaking of the town as if it had its own sentience, however much the other denizens of Darrow seem comfortable with it, but he must admit it's easier to speak that way.

"Perhaps," he ventures, "It only knows what we ourselves know. How it can read our minds and hearts, I do not like to think, but...that is the best explanation I've yet found."

"I suppose, then, barring my mother coming back from the grave, that information's lost to the world," Porthos mutters, resting back against the chaise with his head tipped to the side, the wine and the brandy beginning to mix to give him a relaxed feel down to his muscles, his body beginning to settle after the day they've had.

The other matter they've yet to deal with is fairly pressing. "So if there's no King, who does our duty lie to?"

Aramis casts his eyes away, reaching for his own little parcel from the train station, though he doesn't rifle through it again. He simply needs something with which to occupy his hands. "It is still the King," he says, with remarkable evenness, given his dread for this conversation.

"Our oaths have not changed, even if - " Aramis' mouth thins, body shifting as if it itself could bear the chafe of these truths. "Even if our duty has become impossible. We are Musketeers, cast from honour and into idleness."

They're meant to serve a King who isn't there, which means that Aramis is right. There's bound to be a great deal of idleness for them and Porthos has never coped well with not having anything to do. It always ends up that he gets too drunk or gambles too much or fights the wrong person. Duty keeps him honourable and busy. He closes his eyes, headache becoming a bit more pressing than before. "Almost feels like I brought this on us," he says, that guilt gnawing at a deep part of himself. "What with thinking I might leave the Musketeers."

"Porthos, please," says Aramis, his grim expression replaced with something lighter, for he does not care for the guilty rounding of Porthos' shoulders. He is much too large a man to make himself small.

"That smacks of self-importance. No, if we are being punished, it is due to equal sin. I longed for adventure, and here it is."

Eyes still closed, Porthos laughs in a deep rumble, bemused at what's happening. "I blame myself, you blame yourself. Well, if it's equal sin that brought us here, I'm not sure why it seems like we've been rewarded with money and places to live," he notes, shifting his weight from the chaise until his feet are on the ground and he's leaning his weight forward, stretching out his back. "It's not like this is very adventurous, now," he points out, gesturing to the small space around them and the silence. "Unless you long for calm and idleness."

He should get some rest. Maybe the day will look different once he's slept. Rubbing a hand over his face, he pushes his fingers into his hair, but can't coax himself to get up, despite the monstrous yawn he cracks.