du_vallon | Dated early November

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?

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Porthos shakes his head, poking once more at the heart that must be resting underneath all that pain. Porthos exhales and slumps forward a bit before he catches himself, dragging himself up slightly to try and stay vertical. "We're supposed to be Inseparable," he says, forlorn as he thinks about it. "But Aramis and I don't know whole parts of you and you hate us, now, because you think we'd abandon you, but there's a space for you, Athos," Porthos argues earnestly. "Why don't you see it? See us?"

“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.

"It seems like you do," Porthos says brazenly, as if he can speak the truth now. He stares at the wine, wishing for it, and finally decides that what Aramis doesn't know can't hurt him. He leans forward to stretch for it, muscles quivering before he gets his hands properly on it. "It doesn't feel like you're our friend, sometimes. I know things are different, I know, but...Athos, make me understand?" It's a plea, if anything, and he drains his wine in a single gulp to steady himself for this.

“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."

Porthos can't move, can't leave, and is wanting to talk about this. "Hellhole," he echoes. "Hellhole? You're in our company, well-fed, well-appointed for, and for what? Because it's not Paris? Because you're not allowed to sulk alone? Athos, why is this place so bad?"

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.

Porthos longs to snatch the cup from Athos' hands, but his mobility is restricted. His blood is boiling, even with the lethargy of the mind and he's decided that's it. He's had enough. He's tried to be patient, tried to bring Athos into their work and lives, tried to do everything he could and still, it isn't enough. Porthos really hates not being enough. "Don't you understand?" he spits out, eyes hot with moisture from exhaustion, anger, and pain. "We know our oath to France and King is temporarily on hold because we're trapped here by some volition of a city. We know it's not our choice, Athos. Just as I know, deep down, but don't want to admit that one day it might bring me back and I would return to that life unhappily, but willingly."

"We've done everything we can to make a duty for ourselves to keep busy. There are days when I barely can move for all the duty I'm upholding between friends, civilians, the night job, and the day one." Porthos forces himself onto his feet to try and escape, but it's no use. With a cry of pain, he falls back down again, but he musters up his strength to do so again, stubborn to get away before he can say more. "You're fighting us, Athos, every step and we don't know why. We love you," he growls. "And you could have purpose here, but you're so damned stubborn that you ignore it," he snaps, muttering swift profanities learned in the Court under his breath. "You picky son of a bitch," he rails.

"Though, why should I be surprised," he scoffs. "You nearly let me die to hide your past." It had been a thing in his outer vision, but Porthos had seen, had heard that conversation between Aramis and Athos. "Why wouldn't you stubbornly ignore opportunity when you could drink yourself into a osti de calice de pourris gutter hole?"

“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.

Porthos collapses back onto his arse, but it's not his intent. He's still glaring at Athos, still hurt, still not understanding because they don't want him to be anyone except Athos, but they want him to be happy. Surely those two things don't exist outside of the other. "I don't want you to leave," he argues heatedly, when Athos makes it to the stairs. "I want your company, I just don't want you to sit around moping because...because you think you lack duty when you're just stubborn thinking you need pain to have purpose," he says pointedly. "Come here," he orders himself, grim and firm.

"And I'm going to tell you about the first two months here, for Aramis and I, so you can get it out of your head that we reached this point instantly."

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."

"Yes, you do," Porthos counters fondly, rubbing and itching at his knee at the tip of the cast. "You choose to ignore our attempts to stem the unhappiness, because...because you think you're a burden? I'm not sure," he admits, but feels inclined to plug onwards. "When we first got here, Aramis loathed the place. He hated electricity to the point that I think if I hadn't installed the dimmers, we would've burned down the place. I had to spend twelve hours a day in the library just to learn better English, because I felt so slow and stupid for not speaking the language they did. I spent three weeks miserable because I hadn't felt that stupid in years."

"Aramis knocked out a friend of mine, when his worry was at an all-time high. Unconscious and tied him to a chair. Slept with some woman who bewitched him and passed out at my yoga studio," he informs Athos. "It was so hard, Athos. Two months, it was so hard, and the only reason it got easier is because we were honest with each other. I told him about all the times I wanted to be with him, now and then..."

He shrugs. "He admitted the same. It's not like we were faithful at first. Same as usual, only, he and I shared a bed too. He still slept around, I still did. And then it changed," he says, voice small.

“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.

"It's not just falling into bed with one another that made things better," he says, firmly. "Two months in, we started up the consulting business. We gave ourselves a purpose. We branched out and made new acquaintances who kept our minds busy." He continues to rub at his itchy foot, palms running over the casts continuously. "I got the cat," he says with a smirk. "We distracted ourselves with plenty, and you can too, even if you don't have someone to put your happiness in. Even if I hadn't been sleeping with Aramis by two months into our stay here, I'd have found distraction because we made it for ourselves. And you," he says. "You're lucky because it's established for you now, by us being here and doing the hard work for you."

“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.

Porthos' laugh is strangled, but only because he feels like he's gone back in time and is listening to Aramis again, who speaks about his life and all the things in his future that have to change. "You're exactly right," he agrees. "New Athos," he says, having enticed Aramis to 'New Aramis' dozens of times. "And New Athos can have anything he wishes in this new life of his. It's in your grasp. It's in your full control. Athos, you can do anything you want here. Anything. Society isn't here to hold you back, your past isn't here to shadow you. And the Musketeers are still here," he promises.

"You just have to accept that maybe the work is a bit different. I think Treville wouldn't have disagreed with its purpose, though."

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."

"You're tired?" Porthos barks out with disbelief. "My foot has had its bone split in two small places, opposed to how it's normally supposed to be and I'm on drugs and the alcohol Aramis sent you out to forbid me." He's teasing, though, fondly. "You and Aramis are more alike in your wariness of this place than you know. He's the future you can have."

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.

This time, Porthos lets the silence sit, but he's not willing to have Athos drink himself completely out of commission. He's in pain, lonely, and bored. "I'm cold," he adds quietly, giving Athos a searching look. "Could you fetch me one of the blankets? Please?" he adds, like that will help.

“ ‘course,” Athos says, voice gentle despite the pain that still sits on his features. He stands, and that is when he realizes how swiftly the drink has hit him; the strength of this modern world’s spirits is yet another thing he has had trouble adjusting to. There’s a chest in the corner, and to his credit, he only wobbles a little when he goes to fetch the blanket. He drapes it over Porthos with care, and leans heavily against the side of the chaise.

The confessional mood still hangs over the room, and the wine hasn’t helped, and after a bit, Athos says quietly, “When I found out about the two of you, I said some things-“ He swallows hard and tries to straighten. “There isn’t a dishonorable bone in your body, Porthos. Don’t let me ever say otherwise again."

It's nothing like what Porthos expects to hear Athos say and is taken aback with how much it means to him to hear it. "I'm sorry for thinking that you could mean it," he says, wrapping the blanket a little tighter around himself, the itch not going away, but the warmth of the blanket helping to distract himself from it for a moment. "You and Treville, you're the only two men I've ever wanted to earn approval from. It stung, to think I'd lost it."

“I know.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “That’s why I said it.” Athos rubs the back of his hand over his eyes. “You don’t need anyone’s approval. Certainly not mine."

"I still sought it out," Porthos admits, resting his chin against a big collection of the blankets, staring at Athos from over top of them. "And with Treville not here, you're as good as I have in someone I have to be better for, to be more than the rat in the Court." The drugs loosening his tongue, he stares down at his covered lap. "When I got here, for two weeks, I might have...slipped. Fallen to old ways. Aramis doesn't know."

“Porthos.” The murmur is gently chiding, but holds no ill will or judgment. It is strangely comforting, knowing that even Porthos could crack under the thousands of tiny strains that Darrow placed upon a man. “It can bring out the worst in all of us, then, this place."

"I didn't like the money, at first, that came in automatically. So I thieved a bit, saw how quick my fingers still were," he says, rubbing his nose against the blanket and curling in on himself as he reaches for the wine to sip at it, thirsty in a way he hasn't been in ages. "Eventually, I got myself used to the idea that I could deserve those funds. Maybe that's why I spend them so often. Better to lavish you and Aramis with gifts than waste it gambling."

"Though, Aramis wants to improve on the flat and between that, the businesses, and the wedding, we haven't got enough money," he says, the fretting he's been burying coming up slowly.

Dated early November

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