du_vallon: (pain)
du_vallon ([personal profile] du_vallon) wrote2014-10-30 09:43 pm

Dated early November

To say that Porthos is unhappy and in pain is an understatement. For a man who's had axes buried in his body, musket balls pulled out of him, and all other manner of injury (not to mention the knife to his eye and the tattoo), the fractured bones in his foot are proving to be one of the most painful things he's ever had to cope with. The hospice had set a cast on him and Aramis had procured him enough drugs, but there's a business to run and d'Artagnan's life shouldn't be made to revolve around him. Still, there's a reason the boys have to knock him out so often and it's because Porthos has a very bad habit of being an awful, awful patient.

Whining as he tries to adjust his foot, Porthos looks forlornly to the kitchen.

Aramis had left ten minutes ago, whispering something with Athos, but Porthos is already tired of sitting around while the cat mounts him like a playground. He casts his gaze around and shifts his weight onto his thighs, readying himself to stand on his feet and hobble to the kitchen for a drink. The pills that he'd taken surely will be fine, despite Aramis' constant proclamations that his liver will thank him if he doesn't.

Porthos nearly makes it to the kitchen, too, except that the cat darts out in front of him and to avoid jumping on the thing, Porthos smacks his broken foot against the table. The pained yowl he lets out is nearly inhuman, followed by a swift and steady line of curses as he falls back onto the chaise, groaning as he presses his temple to the fabric. He'd slept on this thing for months. How is it that it's so uncomfortable now?
somepoorsoul: (Default)

[personal profile] somepoorsoul 2014-11-01 09:56 pm (UTC)(link)
“A very good surgeon,” Athos answers, a touch sheepishly. Moments like these, he cannot ignore the great gulf that exists between the life he has lived, and that of Porthos. “I was lucky.” Absently, as though only just remembering that he should eat, he picks up one of the sandwiches.
somepoorsoul: (That could have gone better)

[personal profile] somepoorsoul 2014-11-02 12:00 am (UTC)(link)
Athos snorts, not even gifting Porthos with a look in reply. He sips his wine, and when Porthos still doesn’t stop, sharply slaps his hand away.
somepoorsoul: (Oh really?)

[personal profile] somepoorsoul 2014-11-02 12:39 am (UTC)(link)
Athos thinks Porthos must have had far too many of this little pills that came in the orange bottles. Much of Aramis’ whispered instruction had been about those - how important it was that he take only so many only so often, no matter how the great oaf insisted. Perhaps, for all the caution, he had snuck a few more.

He looks down at the finger pressing into his chest, and then up into Porthos’ eyes; they’re closer, somehow, than he expects, and his stomach does a flip. “Would you not?"
somepoorsoul: (Proud)

[personal profile] somepoorsoul 2014-11-02 01:10 am (UTC)(link)
“I see you plenty.” The words have more ice in them than Athos, perhaps, intends. He has always held himself apart from his friends, even in Paris, even in their closest moments. They hate it, he knows that, but there are some things he has trouble finding the words for. Now, though, for all the time they have spent together, the hunts they have gone on, the drinks they have shared, the gulf still stretches wide in a different sort of way.

Softer, he says, “I do not hate you. I could never.” He reaches for more wine.
somepoorsoul: (The only certainty is a full glass)

[personal profile] somepoorsoul 2014-11-02 02:07 am (UTC)(link)
“Then perhaps you don’t know me even as well as you think you do,” Athos says, suddenly harsh, suddenly angry. He’s too tired, the world is too sharp, and how dare Porthos drag into the open all the pain he has struggled with each day to bury deeper. He drained his glass and poured more wine. “Understand what? We are trapped in a hellhole. There is nothing more to it."
somepoorsoul: (The only certainty is a full glass)

[personal profile] somepoorsoul 2014-11-02 02:40 am (UTC)(link)
Athos tightens his jaw and curls his fingers around his cup, summing every bit of strength to stop himself from hurling it to pieces against the wall. “Well fed and well appointed to what purpose?” he asks with quiet sharpness. He would expect Porthos to at least understand that, though his own pain goes deeper. He hasn’t met many men who quite understand the constant work it takes to keep the darkness at bay. Athos must have work, he must have purpose. Without it, what is he?

Deep in his heart, where he dares not linger, he fears that here, he might find out.
somepoorsoul: (Proud)

[personal profile] somepoorsoul 2014-11-02 04:25 am (UTC)(link)
“Sit down!” Athos barks the words with every ounce of command within him, and almost immediately deflates. Setting down his wineglass upon the floor, he clasps his hands together, as though that might somehow hide the way he trembles. It’s Porthos’ indictment of his actions at La Fere that has finally cracked through that carefully crafted stoicism. Athos has committed his share of shameful acts, but that day ranks high, when he allowed himself to waver for the sake of his own vanity, and risked Porthos’ life in the process.

With jealousy as well as hurt, he wonders how Porthos and Aramis have done it, so easily turned a corner to a new life, where none of the rules to which they were born apply. They are both better men than he, and surely that has something to do with it. Athos detests himself for the selfish gnawing in his stomach that makes him wish his dearest friends had not changed so much. At first, yes, he had turned that pain onto them in anger, but once he saw their contentment and their warmth in this new life, he could do so no longer, could only sit with the selfish disappointment inside himself, and do his best to bury it.

“I am sorry,” Athos says, quiet again, and halting, “that I cannot be the man you wish me to be. And that you surely deserve.” He looks at Porthos and manages to hold his gaze for a moment, eyes full of pain.

Then he is pushing himself up from the chaise. “Don’t get up. You can holler if you need me.” Taking the half-drunk bottle, he heads for the stair.
somepoorsoul: (The only certainty is a full glass)

[personal profile] somepoorsoul 2014-11-02 04:48 am (UTC)(link)
Lacking the strength to argue, Athos does as he is told. He sits, and seeing as he is already feeling particularly sorry for himself, drinks straight from the bottle. Frankly, two months doesn’t sound like any time at all to grow used to this wretched place, but if Porthos insists on telling whatever story he has, then he will listen.

But first, with voice raw, he says, “I don’t choose to be unhappy, you idiot."
somepoorsoul: (Default)

[personal profile] somepoorsoul 2014-11-02 05:14 am (UTC)(link)
“I don’t ignore them,” Athos insists, voice quiet and shaky with the effort it takes to admit even that much. “But it cannot always be repaired like one of your lightbulbs, Porthos.” Under the strain, his sounds a bit fond. Leave it to Porthos to think melancholy can be fixed like a switch.

Athos swallows hard and bows his head, holding the neck of the wine bottle between his hands. He isn’t sure he wants to hear how his friends fell into bed together; thinking about it makes his stomach twist for reasons he can’t quite understand. “I am glad you found happiness with each other.”

And he is. He has to be. They are his dearest friends, and he would never wish pain on them. Even when he doesn't understand what has made them so happy. Even when he is the source of that pain himself.
somepoorsoul: (The only certainty is a full glass)

[personal profile] somepoorsoul 2014-11-02 06:46 pm (UTC)(link)
“Yes,” Athos murmurs dully, “I am lucky.” If Porthos’ little speech is meant to warm him to their life here, it does quite the opposite, only confirming what Athos already knows: that his friends have slipped into a life here that he doesn’t recognize, and doesn’t know his way into.

He still feels hollowed-out and flayed raw by Porthos’ accusations, and maybe that is why he cannot keep his heart hidden as easily as usual. Eyes heavy-lidded, Athos drinks from the bottle and tries to find words he doesn’t wish to say. “I should not have faulted the life you have built. That was cruel of me,” he murmurs. He sets the bottle down and twists his fingers together. “But I cannot-“ he swallows, tries again. “I have spent five years remaking a life. I had it in my grasp, Porthos. Finally.” Athos turns his palm up, and as he curls his fingers together, he can almost feel that locket slipping through them and to the ground. “And then I was gone. Then I was here, and must begin again.”

For all its vagueness, coming from Athos, it’s terribly close to a confession.
somepoorsoul: (The only certainty is a full glass)

[personal profile] somepoorsoul 2014-11-02 07:21 pm (UTC)(link)
Athos presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. By God, how can Porthos make it seem so easy? “New Athos,” he scoffs weakly, bitterly. Can’t Porthos see that he had already made himself anew, only to see that life scrapped to nothing? “No, no. I am too tired."
somepoorsoul: (Proud)

[personal profile] somepoorsoul 2014-11-02 10:17 pm (UTC)(link)
Athos sends Porthos a dark look; he knows the man is trying to be playful, but he’s in no mood for jests, and he is weary of Porthos’ insistence that everything would be well if he just tried a little harder. He finishes the wine, and snorts, and shakes his head.

He doesn’t want a future in Darrow. He wants the one he has already chosen. He wants to go home.

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