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

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.