Chapter Text
5:45am, and Athos’ alarm goes off from somewhere within the pile of cushions and blankets. Frankly he’s mystified it’s still got any charge. He roots for it and eventually unearths it, silencing the infernal chimes.
It’s not as though this weekend was any good. Still, given the choice Athos is pretty sure he’d stay hidden inside of it for the rest of his life.
It’s very nearly 8:00 when he pulls into school. Through some latent survival instinct that has not yet withered away, his feet take him to Porthos’ classroom, where all three of his friends are sitting. They look up when he enters.
“Hey,” d’Artagnan begins, frowning, as Porthos says, “thought you might’ve called out”.
“No,” Athos replies, hearing his voice for the first time since Friday. “I didn’t, but-- I think I’m sick.”
Aramis comes over and feels his forehead. “Well, you don’t have a fever,” he declares. “Are you nauseous at all? There’s a stomach thing going around.”
“I just think I’m sick.”
Aramis frowns in confusion, though it’s maybe the most truthful thing Athos has ever said. Athos bites his cheek. He’s frustrated at his inability to articulate the problem, frustrated at his friends’ inability to just reach into his head and pick out what’s wrong.
But d’Artagnan actually looks worried now, and so he shakes himself. “Slept like shit. Fuck April,” he says, sounding clearer, and everybody else relaxes a little.
“Ibuprofen?” Aramis offers. “Tums?”
“Anything in your pharmacy that would make it June already?”
Aramis laughs, and Athos sinks into a chair and tries to calm his racing heart.
It helps, being in Porthos’ classroom instead of his own. He loves Porthos’ classroom; out of all of theirs, it is the neatest and best kept, brightened by a vase of pretty-damn-realistic fake flowers, and student projects from previous years. Athos’ favorite is the papier-mâché Mobius strip that hangs by the board. The Mobius Mobile, Porthos calls it; people think the trick is, it’s only got one side. That ain’t a trick; havin’ one side’s easy. Trick is makin’ two when you’ve really only got one-- bein’ more, holdin’ it all together, when really you’re all just twisted ‘round. But that twist, that’s what makes the difference, ‘tween everything and nothing…
Porthos uses math the right way, Athos thinks, absently. He grabs it with both hands and curls it all around himself in gorgeous abstract spirals, and sees the beauty in something that only shows dullness to the rest of the world. Porthos brings out the best in things. In his presence, and the presence of Aramis and d’Artagnan too, Athos feels his body finally settle.
It’s tempting, in a weird way, to believe that his friends don’t care. It’s also impossible, not only because of this feeling but because d’Artagnan comes by on his prep to hypothetically borrow a pen (no points for subtly), and Aramis tests his temperature again at lunch before complimenting his sweater.
In fact the only one who doesn’t look in on him, oddly, is Porthos himself. It seems to be coming, when Porthos stops by his room after school, but even then it doesn’t.
Instead Porthos gives him what he really needs: somebody else’s problem to focus on.
“Hey,” Porthos says, cracking the door. “You busy?”
Athos is not sure that Porthos has ever uttered those words to him, at least not in that order, and he frowns and beckons the man inside. “What’s up?” he murmurs.
Porthos shifts from foot to foot. He doesn’t have anything with him, so he’s not dropping by on his way out of the building; rather he’s come to visit Athos specifically. Athos can tell at once, though, that he isn’t here to check in. Besides the shifting, he is fidgety-handed and a little grey.
“Ath, um-- I needa talk to you. Everything’s okay but I needa tell you something.”
“Ready when you are,” Athos promises. Porthos drags the little computer chair over next to Athos’ desk and plops into it.
“It’s about Aramis,” he begins, still working his hands together.
“Aramis?”
“Mm.”
“What about him?”
“Guess,” Porthos says, and smiles weakly. “No, really, ‘m curious how obvious I’m bein’.”
“You have feelings for him,” Athos replies, without hesitation.
“So, really obvious then.”
“Maybe a little,” Athos admits. “I’ve known for a while. The question is when you worked it out.”
“I dunno.” Porthos jams his hands in his pockets and shrinks in on himself, so that his beard and bow tie squish together. “The pup was askin’ me about it, an’ it made me think, I guess.”
“D’Artagnan was actually pressing somebody about something?”
Porthos takes a deep breath, belly rising with it. “He’s head over heels for that waitress, y’know. Yeah, I guess we were talkin’ about that, then we started talkin’ about me. Ath, I don’t wanna put you in a weird place. I don’t want you to feel like you’re takin’ sides or anythin’.”
Athos reaches over and puts a hand on Porthos’ elbow. “Porthos, it’s all right. Come on. It’ll feel good to say it.”
“I think I’m in love with him,” Porthos rasps. “Goddamn scrawny little gorgeous Chilean motherfucker. I’m sorry. This must be really weird for you to hear.”
“It’s not. So what’s the problem?”
Porthos looks at Athos the way his students do when he asks a review question from six months ago. “What do you mean what’s the problem?”
“What’s the problem? You adore one another. You’re both single, and you’re both bisexual.”
Porthos pulls a face.
“Or he is, and you’re gay?” Athos says, hoping he sounds nonchalant. “That still should work, shouldn’t it?”
“I’m asexual.” Porthos’ face goes blank. “Ace. I don’t like sex. Not to mention, you know, I could have my own tank at Sea World.”
It takes Athos a minute to work out what Porthos means by that, and when he does, his heart might break a little. Porthos cares about his weight. Athos knows this, but at the same time, never thought he really cared about it.
“Porthos,” he murmurs.
“‘m not much of a catch,” Porthos concludes. “An’ Aramis is a goddamn male model, an’ he’s so-- so kind an’ so thoughtful an’ interesting an’ I’m sure he’s amazin’ in bed, whatever the hell that means--”
“I wouldn’t know,” Athos admits.
“About Aramis? I’d hope not.”
“About what it means for somebody to be good in bed.”
Porthos blinks at him. “Are you--?”
“You know, I’ve never used a word for it. But I like it: asexual. Porthos, if you’re not a catch then neither am I.”
“But you’re still--”
“What?”
“Um. Handsome.” Porthos wrinkles his nose, looks at the floor.
“Handsome?”
“You are. You didn’t know that?”
Athos feels himself going red.
“Sorry. I’m makin’ this weird. It’s just, if I were good-looking, I don’t think I’d be so scared. But maybe he’ll think I just don’t want sex because I’m so huge an’ that’s just kind of pathetic-- but maybe it’s true, an’ I just don’t realize it--”
“No, I just-- no. Porthos, you’re--” he struggles to articulate. “You’re--”
“Literally a whale,” Porthos says, and falls silent. A wave of nausea slams into Athos as he realizes that there are tears in Porthos’ eyes.
Porthos sees that he sees, and flings an arm over his face. “Oh my god,” he moans, pitching forward. “High school hormones-- they’re catchin’!”
If d’Artagnan were here he’d know what to say, Athos thinks, absently. Something along the lines of oh my god Porthos no you’re like amazing and adorable and literally brilliant and your dimples could be on a magazine cover-- and you make the best cookies and give the best hugs and I fucking love your belly because it like jiggles when you laugh and you love to laugh you’re like always laughing--
Athos opens his mouth but none of this comes out. Nothing comes out. Porthos wipes his eyes and shakes his head, heaving an earthquakey sigh. “Fat man cryin’. Nothin’ worse. Sorry, Athos. I’d, um, I’d appreciate it if-- we keep this just us. Well, us an’ the pup. So everybody but Aramis, I guess. Oh, fuck--”
Athos lurches out of his seat, then, and does for Porthos what he’s been wanting somebody to do for him for days now: he throws his arms around him and hugs him tightly. Porthos startles. Athos is not precisely known for his ebullient displays of affection, after all. But slowly he relaxes, sniffles into Athos’ shirtfront.
“Stupid bastard made me cry,” he burbles.
“You made yourself cry,” Athos scolds. “You haven’t given him the chance to do anything yet.”
“He’s gonna.”
“You sound very sure of that.”
Porthos pulls away, wiping his eyes again. “Ath-- there’s only two ways this ends.”
“Oh really.”
“Scenario one is I just never tell ‘im. Status quo. Scenario two is I fess up, an’ that’s the end of it. I thought I could live with the status quo. I didn’t think I had to tell him, but-- I do.”
“You genuinely see no scenario in which he jumps into your arms and you’re married by next school year?”
Porthos glares. There is actual anger behind it, and Athos sinks back into his seat. He does not, however, relent. “If you had no hope whatsoever, you wouldn’t tell him,” he reasons, quietly. “By even considering it, you’re admitting the hope is there.”
“I dunno about that,” Porthos confesses. “I dunno if I’ve got hope or if it’s just, like-- a song that gets stuck in your head, you know? Like you don’t realize it at first but once you do you’ve got no choice but to hum it. If I don’t tell him I think I’ll go crazy. Athos. Athos, I-- I’m gonna tell him.”
“Okay,” Athos replies, calmly. “When?”
“I was thinkin’ Friday?” Porthos sniffs again, then gives up and goes to actually get a tissue. “’cause, like, spring break, right? So if it goes to shit I don’t have to see him for a week.”
“And if it goes well you can spend the whole week cuddling.”
Porthos finishes blowing his nose and smiles a little at the thought of this. “Yeah. Yeah, makes sense either way. All right. Spill my guts: I’ll put it in my Flexi for Friday afternoon.”
*
On Friday morning Porthos looks awful. He looks so awful that the kids pester him about it, then stop pestering him long enough to make him a bouquet of origami flowers. Aramis pesters him about it, too. Athos-- and d’Artagnan, who seems to be in the know as well-- pat his back discreetly whenever they happen to walk by.
Athos wants to see it as an overreaction. But then he remembers putting himself out there-- perhaps the one and only time he ever really did-- and suddenly he feels a little sick as well. God, he just hopes it goes well. Porthos deserves happiness more than the rest of them combined.
It hasn’t quite been a good week, depression-wise. Monday night Athos didn’t fall asleep until almost three in the morning; Tuesday he went to bed at 8:00pm and still slept through his alarm. Wednesday and Thursday were similarly dysfunctional. But all of this has been put on the back burner, and Porthos’ revelation has been placed squarely in front.
And now it’s Friday.
Sometimes, Athos genuinely blocks out the seven and a half hours he spends between before-school and after-school-- like the teaching part of his teacher life doesn’t actually happen. Today is not one of those days. There’s an evacuation drill third period; somebody starts a very convincing rumor that it isn’t a drill, and Athos ends up with a junior in mild hysterics. To top it all off, three kids don’t return with the rest. After a futile ten minutes spend sending his most responsible students to check bathrooms and stairwells, he’s finally forced to call the security guard, who finds the boys smoking and eating takeout beneath the bleachers of the freshmen/sophomore gym.
And this is all without mention of how he had a test scheduled third period. When the chaos ends, there’s fifteen minutes left; not enough time for a test, but certainly enough time for anarchy when the kids realize that Athos has nothing for them to do-- and no choice but to postpone their test until after break.
Days before break are always the worst.
By the time last period ends Athos is exhausted, too tired even to be pleased that he’s about to have a week off. Still, though, his mind is on Porthos. He’d tried, but failed, to catch sight of the man during the evacuation; with any luck, though, he has confessed his undying love for Aramis and the two are canoodling happily right now. (He is not yet so bitter as to begrudge his friends their happiness.)
But Porthos is, apparently, not off canoodling with Aramis-- or even with Aramis at all-- because at barely 3:20 there’s a knock at Athos’ door. Porthos slips in, closes it carefully behind him.
“Hey,” Athos says, stomach sinking low.
“Hey.”
“Did you-- just come from Aramis?”
“No,” Porthos rasps. “Oh, fuck, I couldn’t wait. I told him right after origami club. I thought Charlie would’ve told you by now.”
Athos shakes his head, mute with fear. “And?” he croaks.
Porthos shrugs, and the shrug says it all. “Not how he sees me, I guess. I dunno. There was a lot to say, an’ we were tryin’ to do it all in the five minutes before homeroom, an’-- I can’t even remember everything we said, but, I mean, I got the gist of it. An’ the gist was no.”
He isn’t crying but he’s shaking, hard, when Athos touches a hand to his elbow. Porthos closes his eyes for a second and sucks in a breath. Then he swings his hands together and claps once, awkwardly. “Do you wanna-- um, I was thinking I could make us dinner tonight? An’ you could always crash with me, if it got too late?”
Athos feels himself straighten. “Yeah. Of course. But you don’t have to bribe me with dinner--”
“No, I want to cook. This isn’t-- this isn’t some, come over so I can cry on your shoulder thing. I’m all right. I am.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Really. I mean, I’m sure sometime in the next few days I’m gonna, like, end up cryin’ in the shower so hard I puke or somethin’-- no, Ath, that wasn’t-- that wasn’t--” he laughs, as Athos frowns and swoops him into a bear hug. “That wasn’t passive-aggressive whatever. I really am okay. But I could use the company. An’ don’t think,” he adds, squeezing back, “that I can’t see how you’re feelin’ too. No, it’s okay. We’ve always been a match set, I get that. You weren’t the one who fucked that up but now you’re scared, too. It’s okay. Come on, I think we both could use the company.”
It’s difficult to argue with a single aspect of this. So Athos swings by his apartment for a pair of pajamas, his toothbrush, and a bottle of wine. At Porthos’ apartment, he showers. Then he lies through his teeth that he’s forgotten a pajama top (having left it strategically crammed under the seat in his car), so that Porthos waves him at his t-shirt drawer and lets him at it. Athos finds a heather grey XXL from the time they had a fieldtrip to Les Miserables on Broadway. He shrugs into it, sighing as the soft, worn fabric sags gently around his body, and all at once feels stupidly safe.
“Les Mis!” Porthos cries, when Athos joins him in the kitchen. Athos rubs the silkscreen image of Cossette across his chest and smiles.
“On my own,” Porthos begins, “pretending he’s besi-ide me-- no, I’m kiddin’, Athos. Stop frownin’; your face’ll freeze that way.”
Porthos makes chicken with an apricot-plum sauce over brown rice. Though it’s delicious, Athos finds he can hardly finish it; it may be spring, but he’d’ve preferred something like soup, heavy and creamy and warm. He’d expected something like that, too. Knowing Porthos he’d expected beef and butter and starch, followed by something custardy and/or chocolatey. But comfort food is not on the menu tonight.
Porthos, in fact, is remarkably composed, and after dinner they do the dishes, watch the news, then watch Law and Order. Not once does Porthos give himself away. Not once does he tear up or sniffle or even cling-- though he does remove himself to bed exceptionally early, leaving Athos with most of the wine and a cursory gesture meaning you know where the spare bedroom is.
Alone on Porthos’ couch, Athos’ back burner boils over. He wraps up in an afghan and pours himself another glass; in his chest, his heart feels unsettling active, his mind unusually aware of its presence.
Things are kind of fucked up, now. Porthos had said it but it hadn’t really worked its way into Athos’ brain that one of his closest friends just confessed their love for-- and was rejected by-- another one of his closest friends. For months now he’s been horribly, illogically lonely.
Now he’s actually going to be alone.
Athos feels unaccountably cold, and realizes eventually that he’s got goosebumps standing palely at attention along both arms. Even the wine does nothing to warm him. Some small part of him knows it isn’t cold in Porthos’ apartment. Really, though, it doesn’t matter. He feels cold, can’t stop shivering, can’t make his muscles untense, and he sits on the couch, in the dark, with his knees pulled up to his chest.
It might be midnight, or possibly 4:00am, when he hears footsteps behind him. Whatever time it is, it’s been long enough for his eyes to adjust to the dark, and he sees Porthos’ hand, extending in front of him. He takes it. Porthos pulls him to his feet and leads him down the hall, hand on his waist, and this isn’t how it should be, it shouldn’t be Porthos who’s comforting him, but when they get to the side of the bed Athos can’t make himself care. He burrows under the blankets like his life depends on it. Porthos crawls in from the opposite side and pulls Athos into his arms, letting him bury himself against Porthos’ chest. Athos shivers there, almost violently.
Then, faster than he’d’ve expected, Porthos’ warmth leeches into him and he stills, going limp; cradled in Porthos’ arms, Athos falls asleep.
*
Athos wakes up warm, submerged in a sea of blankets, with somebody else’s steady breathing not too far away. He glances around. Porthos is tucked up beside him, face squished into his pillow, sleeping peacefully.
Athos closes his eyes and dozes.
When he wakes up the second time, Porthos is sitting in bed beside him; it makes him feel small, like a child, and rather than sitting up he just rolls onto his back and looks up at his friend.
“Mornin’,” Porthos whispers.
“Good morning.”
“Did you sleep okay?”
“Mm-hm. Did you?”
“Yeah.” Porthos grabs a pillow from where it’s been tossed to the foot of the bed-- Porthos sleeps in a pile of soft things-- and holds it protectively against his chest and belly. “Thanks for-- keeping me company last night. I’m maybe not as okay as I thought I was.”
Athos frowns slightly as he absorbs this new information. “I didn’t--”
“Huh?”
“Porthos, you came and got me last night because you wanted me to sleep in here?”
“Well-- yeah.”
“I thought you got me because you knew I was-- oh, we’re brilliant.”
“You thought I got you because you needed it?” Porthos breathes a sigh of what might be relief. “We are brilliant, aren’t we? Athos-- you’re my best friend. Did you know that?”
“No,” Athos says honestly, then replies-- just as honestly: “same here.”
“Do you think that, you know, in a very asexual, best friend kind of way… that we could maybe just kind of stay here for a while? If it doesn’t bother you.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” Athos promises. “I just need the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
Athos uses the bathroom, brushes his teeth, and washes his face; then he crawls gratefully back into bed and waits while Porthos takes his turn. When Porthos comes back, their eyes meet, and they smile, a little awkwardly. Then Porthos slips under the blankets with a quiet c’mere, and Athos fits into the spoon of Porthos’ body, and it isn’t awkward anymore, not even a little. They lay this way a while. Porthos’ arm grows heavier as he drifts back to sleep, and Athos closes his eyes and breathes slowly.
This is new to him. Being in bed with somebody else always seemed reserved for sex, or sex-related things, and the thought of it has always pretty much scared him to death. But with Porthos it’s different. With Porthos there is no uncertainty, no fear, and none of the near-magnetic repulsion of another body getting too close to his own. There is only safety and peace.
He has needed this, badly.
When Porthos wakes up again, they turn on the TV across the room from Porthos’ bed, and find The Matrix on one of the movie channels. Porthos props himself up on an extra pillow to watch. Athos hesitates only a moment before laying his head on Porthos’ chest instead, but it makes him kind of queasy to watch the movie sideways, so he closes his eyes. Porthos’ chest is warm beneath his cheek, the fabric of his t-shirt soft. It should probably scare him, the sound of somebody else’s heart beating, but it doesn’t.
“Ice cream for lunch,” Porthos declares, when the movie ends. He slides out of bed and returns with two pints of Ben and Jerry’s and two spoons, and Athos claims the Chubby Hubby, leaving Porthos with the Karamel Sutra.
Athos basically inhales his. Then he sprawls on his back and pokes idly at his belly, small inside the big borrowed t-shirt but a little squishy nevertheless.
Porthos watches for a minute. Then he rests his hand over Athos’, palm smoothing and stilling his bent and wiggling fingers, and Athos grins despite himself.
The grin fades quickly. “Do you think Aramis would-- you know. Do you think he’d be more into me if I was thinner? Honestly, Athos.”
“Honestly, no,” Athos replies, praying he’s right. Porthos bites his lip.
“Do you remember when he kissed me, at New Year’s?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
Porthos takes his hand away, thinks a moment, then lies down and puts his head on Athos’ chest. “Is this okay?” he mumbles. “Am I hurting you?”
“Jesus, Porthos, you aren’t-- you-- you’re not hurting me, Porthos. I’m not as fragile as I look.”
“I know.”
“So put your head down all the way, please,” Athos orders, politely.
Porthos does. And yeah, he’s a little heavy, but it’s a soothing weight, and Athos cuddles him close. There’s a blissful sigh. Then comes the feeling of Porthos’ warm fingers, wriggling between his own, and he accepts the familiar hand into his grasp.
“Let’s never move,” Porthos whispers. “Okay?”
“I’m about twenty minutes away from needing to pee,” Athos replies, squeezing Porthos’ hand. “Maybe twenty-five, if you shift off my bladder.”
“Are we gonna be friends when we’re eighty?” Porthos blurts.
I’m not going to be alive when you’re eighty, Athos thinks, automatically. I’m not going to be alive when I’m eighty. But the thought of still knowing Porthos decades from now is maybe the first time he’s gaped up at the future with anything other than existential dread.
“Yes.”
That single syllable makes Porthos sigh again, and squirm happily against Athos’ chest, and apparently being called somebody’s best friend wasn’t enough, because this is the moment that Athos finally realizes Porthos actually likes him. Porthos actually likes being around him. Porthos, who is one of the kindest, brightest, funniest people Athos has ever met, actually enjoys his presence, and Athos cranes his head down and smacks a kiss on Porthos’ forehead.
“I love you too,” Porthos says. “You’re just about the only thing in my life that ain’t fucked.”
“You’re being dramatic. Nothing’s fucked but Aramis. And our school district. And your childhood, I guess. And I’m not not fucked.”
“I know. I do know that you’re fucked, Ath, I just don’t always know what to do to help you. But I guess what I mean is, you an’ I, as a pair, we’re not fucked. An’ I appreciate that.”
“I don’t know why I’m fucked,” Athos murmurs, stroking a thumb over the back of Porthos’ hand. “I don’t know why and I don’t know when it started, either.”
“An’ shit with me an’ Aramis ain’t helpin’. I know.”
“No, but this is helping.” It’s shocking, the amount to which this admission does not mortify him. “This-- you know.”
“Cuddling?”
Okay, that embarrasses him, but just a little. “Yes,” he mumbles, feeling himself go pink.
“Go pee,” Porthos orders, “because I wanna fall asleep again.” He moves, and Athos reluctantly lets go of his hand, shimmies out from under him, and goes to pee.
It occurs to him, while he’s out of bed, that it actually is a bit cold in Porthos’ apartment-- even when he’s not halfway to some sort of weird breakdown.
“Porthos,” he says, when he returns, “do you always keep your AC set this high?”
“No.” Porthos looks sheepish. “It’s just-- too warm to really burrow, you know? And sometimes you just want to. ‘snot very green, I know; I don’t do it often, promise.”
Green or not, though, Athos sees the appeal. His arms are goosebumpy again and the floor is sucking the heat from his toes; when he crawls back into bed, it feels all the cozier for it.
He and Porthos lie down again. This time neither holds the other; instead they position themselves to actually sleep, not touching but comfortably close. Athos has never napped easily in his life. And yet as he closes his eyes he knows, without a doubt, that he will drift off quickly and sleep peacefully, with Porthos at his side.
It’s after 5:00pm when they wake up. Athos drags himself out of bed, though he knows that Porthos would not protest him spending tonight together as well. Be that as it may, he does have chores to do back home. He’s been neglecting both the dishes and the laundry, and making a grocery list, though he’ll do the shopping Monday, when the store’s less crowded.
And he needs a bit of time by himself. Though Porthos hardly counts as company, he still counts a little, and Athos knows from a lifetime of experience that he’ll be irritable as hell by tomorrow if he doesn’t sit alone for a while. He’s not sure this quite makes sense, given recent days. But perhaps company is like cheesecake-- wonderful, arguably necessary, but still something on which one can be overloaded.
Porthos hugs him goodbye for a long, long time.
When Athos gets home he puts in a load of laundry before he can even sit down, tossing his borrowed t-shirt in with the rest. He does the dishes, sweeps the floors, and makes his grocery list. He orders a pizza-- an uncommon indulgence-- and watches Amelie, then still has enough energy to put away the laundry before bed.
He puts Porthos’ shirt on a kitchen chair to be returned after break. Then, after brushing his teeth, just before crawling into bed, he goes back to the kitchen for it, swaps it with the plain pajama top he’s wearing, and hugs the fabric against himself as he falls asleep.
*
Athos doesn’t see Porthos again that week, though they text daily. He doesn’t see d’Artagnan or Aramis, either, as d’Artagnan is (finally) visiting California, and Aramis-- well. He just doesn’t know if he should see Aramis, right now.
He’s not a total shut-in, though; on Tuesday morning he gets a text from Treville, asking if he’s free for dinner. He accepts, surprised but still grateful. They agree on a steakhouse halfway between them-- the captain, like Porthos, lives a good deal north of school-- and at around seven that night Athos finds himself sitting across the table from his principal, glad of the company.
They order appetizers and shoot the shit for a little while. Treville asks about d’Artagnan’s progress, then sounds off about some of the district politics that Athos, as much as he hates, is also apparently insightful about. The appetizers come, then, and Treville thanks him for his thoughts.
“Your name’s not on the VP door, I know. But you help me get my head straighter in twenty minutes than Cordet ever could. Not that he’s bad-- you’re just better.”
Athos’ fork stops just short of the spinach dip, and he sighs. “John--”
“No need to John me, Athos. I can take no for an answer, despite what you may think.”
“Just takes you a few years to come ‘round to it.” Athos shovels a mound of dip onto his plate and takes a few pieces of toasted bread.
“The district will lose out if you stay in the classroom your whole life,” Treville replies, meeting Athos’ eyes. “But the kids will lose out if you leave. In any case. None of that is why I thought we should get dinner.”
“No?”
“No. You might-- hell, I don’t quite know how to say this. Athos, I’m worried about you. Are you all right?”
Athos pauses again, bread halfway into the mountain of dip. “How do you mean?”
“You look like shit,” Treville says, simply. “Nearly as bad as-- well. In all honesty you’ve got me worried. Is there anything going on?”
Athos lets go of the bread, puts his hands in his lap, finds this too secretive, and instead crosses his arms on the table. “How old were you for your midlife crisis?”
“Thirty-six,” Treville replies, without hesitation. “I got a calf tattoo and went on a singles cruise.”
“You have a calf tattoo?”
“Are you having a midlife crisis?”
“I’m-- hung up on the tattoo.”
“Athos,” Treville says, firmly. “We’ve known each other a damn long time. Yes?”
“Which is why I’m baffled that I never knew--”
“Athos.”
“John.”
“If you aren’t ready to talk about it, then don’t.” Treville’s tone is blunt, but not unkind. “If you don’t want to talk about it at all with me, then don’t. I just-- don’t want you to think that nobody’s noticing. How run-down you are. How much less-- spark you’ve got. Whenever you’d like to talk, I’ll be there to listen. And if not me, then Porthos. Aramis. Hell, d’Artagnan. He seems to’ve rushed your little fraternity quite gleefully. Eat your spinach dip, eh? Stop looking at me like I’ve got two heads.”
Athos blinks, looks away, eats a bite of dip-covered bread, then takes a sip of water. “How was the cruise?” he asks, finally.
“Miserable,” Treville snaps. “Seasick the whole damn time.”
“What’s your tattoo of?”
“Is that our waitress?” Treville asks, opening his menu.
*
Pulling into the parking lot Monday morning, Athos does feel a little better. He’s slept; he’s cleaned his house, which always cheers him up; and he’s forced himself to go for a short walk every day to enjoy the cool April sunshine. He’s hardly well, and he knows it. But if the very worst of this is to come in cycles then he will enjoy the days in which the very worst is not upon him.
School is not a refuge, though. Within ten minutes of his friends’ arrival he can see that Porthos and Aramis are on eggshells with one another-- not to mention that state testing is barreling down upon them.
D’Artagnan looks better, though. He’s even tanner than he was before spring break; and this is not the only physical mark his trip has left on him. He looks well. Looks happy. For the first time Athos thinks he might be meeting, instead of the son of a murdered father, the real Charles d’Artagnan-- sociable and excitable and just a little wild. Suddenly his monologues are full of names Athos doesn’t recognize. He’s texting constantly, laughing at messages from his friends back home; he’s vocally determined to marry Constance someday, despite the fact that they’ve never even dated.
He’s also finally speaking that French he promised. Not to any meaningful end, really, but rather to casually glance up at Athos and drop little gems like encule mardi and première période étaient morceaux de merde aujourd'hui and la cafétéria sent les oignons et les couilles d'un kangourou mort. He speaks quickly, and with total nonchalance. Thus nobody else thinks to ask for translations, and Athos feels a sort of giddiness, as though they’ve gotten away with something big.
On Friday afternoon, Athos sits down with d’Artagnan to go over testing regs one last time. They make sure that d’Artagnan can log into the test admin’s website, and that all the students he’ll be responsible for are there. They drag his desks into testing position. Then Athos sharpens all the pencils and yells, without heat, at d’Artagnan, who has waited until the very last minute to cover all the posters on his wall and is now scrambling to do so.
“Is testing as boring as it seems?” d’Artagnan asks, flopping into his desk chair and powering down his laptop.
“Let’s just say, if there are any massive philosophical quandaries you’ve been meaning to ponder-- now’s your chance.”
“Aramis says he does, like, calisthenics down the rows.”
It occurs to Athos, suddenly, how much he misses Aramis; they still have lunch together, but thinking on it now, Athos realizes how little they’ve actually spoken since school reopened. He hasn’t gone to origami club all week. Neither has Porthos, according to d’Artagnan. “That doesn’t surprise me,” Athos replies, when he realizes that he hasn’t yet. “One year I counted the ceiling tiles. I suppose it looked odd, though, because a student asked me if I was praying for them.”
D’Artagnan laughs. He stretches enormously, then gathers his things together and stands. “Happy hour?”
He should say yes, Athos knows; should be social for these last few hours of the week, knowing he’ll do nothing but sit around his house all weekend.
“Not today,” he says, instead. “Save your drink money for next Friday-- end-of-testing happy hour is the biggest of the year.”
D’Artagnan agrees, and laughs again. He and Athos walk to the parking lot together, where d’Artagnan runs into two of the other young teachers and invites them instead.
*
5:45am Monday, and Athos hauls himself upright with a grunt. He’s got a cold-- not a terrible one, but bad enough that the draining of his sinuses is palpable as his head changes elevation. He shuffles to the bathroom. A nice steamy shower helps the congestion, a little, but still all he’d really like to do is crawl back into bed. He cannot. He’s already pushed his morning alarm as far back as it can reasonably go, and he can’t dick around today, because today they start state testing.
Fuck.
State testing, much like a head cold, is something that does not actually change alter the course of one’s life for the worse-- but he doesn’t want it, damn it. The kids are miserable in the mornings, wild in the afternoons. They seem to be under the impression that they should not have to sit through hours of class after sitting through hours of testing-- and Athos can’t say he blames them.
Still, it’s out of their hands, and his.
Athos puts on trousers, a sweater, and sneakers; Treville got in trouble a few years back for letting them have full-on casual dress days during testing, but is still adamant they should be allowed comfortable footwear. He loads his pockets with cough drops and tissues and heads out.
At school, things are chaos, as expected; schedules and preps have been blown to hell, and Athos collects his testing material and mentally steels himself as best as he can.
The students shuffle in, sullen and far from excited. Athos passes out pencils and laptops, sends the kids one row at a time to the bathroom, and collects everybody’s cell phones (which they are never supposed to have, technically, but this is the week to enforce it in full.) When the clock hits 9:15am, the announcement comes to begin.
Athos reads his assigned script, which guides the kids through logging into the computerized test. That’s all he needs to do-- the rest is just patrolling. He paces the aisles, hyper-aware of the order in which his heels spin at the end of every row. Right first, left follows. He needs to blow his nose quite badly but it’s deathly silent in the room, so he snuffles along instead-- which probably amounts to much more noise, overall, than a single blast would have.
He does do a good job, thanks very much, of not thinking too hard, amidst all the silence. It would be all too easy to fall into the trap of despair, contemplating all manner of hurts and fears-- instead Athos challenges himself to list the countries and capitals by continent, then allows him to fantasize about what the perfect meal would consist of.
A counselor knocks on the door, asks if he needs to use the bathroom. He says yes, just for a change of scenery, ambles down the hall, and realizes that at least he has a chance to blow his nose, now.
When he returns he nods to the counselor, who leaves. Then he resumes pacing for the remainder of the test, and occupies himself with counting up just how many students he has taught over the years.
It’s been over a thousand, easily.
Holy hell.
This is mostly how the week goes. On Wednesday there is a minor chaos in which Athos realizes the laptops have not been charged overnight, and testing becomes a two-hour struggle to keep the kids on computers that work. When one laptop dies he plugs it in immediately and switches it for another. The kids sitting close enough to the charging cart are plugged into it like some weird Matrix-like contraption, and Athos is secretly glad for all those who rush and finish early because each means one less kid who needs a laptop.
But that is the only real excitement.
After lunch on Friday he puts on a movie of vague academic merit, passes out cookies and juice boxes, and sits at his desk watching the movie along with the kids, until the last bell rings. He leaves at 3:15, heads straight for Tir Na Nog. The place is overrun with teachers, celebrating their victory for another year running, and Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan end up staying until nearly ten at night, letting off steam and doing the shots with many colleagues that they run into.
When they’re finally ready to go, Porthos is the only one good to drive. He ferries them all back to Athos’ house, where d’Artagnan immediately collapses on the sofa and Athos takes an extremely cursory shower and crawls into bed with his hair still dripping wet.
Before he can fall asleep, though, there’s a knock on the door.
Too fucking drunk for proper etiquette, Athos merely grunts that the door’s not fucking locked, Porthos, and makes no effort whatsoever to take up less of the bed when Porthos comes cautiously in and lies down beside him.
“’m sorry Aramis’s not here for you t’cuddle with,” Athos blurts, without hesitation. Porthos chuckles quietly.
“’sokay. I was gonna drag the pup into the guest room with me but he’s out cold. Hey, I’ve been lookin’ for that shirt.”
Athos raises his head just enough to see his own chest and, yes, he’s wearing Porthos’ Les Mis shirt. Never quite got around to returning it, and it’s his favorite sleep shirt now.
“It’s soft,” Athos tells him, “’n’ it feels like it’s hugging me.”
Porthos laughs again. “You are beyond drunk. Go to sleep.”
Athos turns over then, ignoring the roil in his stomach as he does so, and rests his (still wet) head on Porthos’ chest. He feels sturdy, there, and the room spins a little less.
“Fuck Aramis,” Athos says, and he’s sure he’ll feel shitty about that in the morning but he doesn’t now.
“That’s the problem,” Porthos sighs. “I don’t want to.”
*
Athos does feel bad in the morning-- and not just because he’s so hungover he spends his entire shower wondering whether or not he should make himself throw up. He feels bad because of what he said about Aramis. Aramis who, by all accounts, has been his friend as long as Porthos has been; Aramis who is a thoughtful, loyal, kind-hearted man, who does not deserve a single iota of ire for the simple fact that he does not look at Porthos the way Porthos looks at him.
Athos does not have any bacon in the house. Porthos fries them all eggs instead; d’Artagnan eats four and seems instantly better, while Athos chokes down one and wishes enviously for his twentysomething stamina back.
Thank you, thirty-eight.
When he’s pretty sure he won’t actually be sick-- which does take a little while-- Porthos drives them all back to Tir Na Nog so Athos and d’Artagnan can collect their cars.
He has every intention of texting Aramis the minute he gets home. His hangover, though, combined with a shitty night’s sleep, forces him to nap through most of the afternoon, and by the time he feels coherent enough to deal with the situation, it seems too late.
He is determined, though, to not let Sunday pass him by in the same way. As soon as he deems it late enough, he gets his phone and texts Aramis:
Breakfast and/or lunch?
It takes a while for Aramis to reply-- nearly three hours. But when he finally does his message is hardly indecisive.
god yes
lunch at this point, i guess lol
was just getting in the shower, give me half an hour
Half an hour is a bit optimistic for Aramis to be showered and ready, so Athos suggests meeting in an hour, at a diner he knows they’re both fond of. Aramis agrees. Soon Athos is at the diner, requesting a booth and sitting in it facing the door; Aramis is a little late. When he arrives Athos waves him over, and Aramis smiles tiredly.
Aramis orders a ginger ale and a club sandwich without bacon or mayonnaise; he also pops a few Tums before their food arrives. Athos doesn’t comment. They’re silent for a while, but in that silence Athos remembers just how familiar he actually is with this man, how much he values his friendship and would mourn the loss of it.
The food comes. Aramis picks apart his sandwich like the surgeon he never became; eats the turkey, then the cheese, then the tomatoes. He saves the bread for last. Then he eats a couple of fries before he stops suddenly short, and pushes his plate away.
“How’s Porthos?” he asks, quietly.
Athos gets the ketchup and squirts a pool of it next to Aramis’ abandoned fries. “He’s all right.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He eats a few fries. “How are you?”
“Confused,” Aramis sighs, which isn’t exactly the response that Athos was expecting. “That should have been-- Athos, that should have been the happiest moment of my life. Porthos is-- well, you know him. You know how much I care about him. It’s absurd, that we shouldn’t live happily ever after.”
The nasty little worm that’s been wriggling in Athos’ belly for weeks now finally bites hard enough to bleed.
“Is it because he’s-- bigger?”
“No!” Aramis yelps, head shooting up. “Holy shit, Athos, I can’t-- I’m actually really upset you’d even think that! I-- no.” He collects himself a little. “It isn’t because he’s fat, Ath. You know I think he’s adorable. Beyond adorable. He’s-- gorgeous, and soft, and his smile is-- mm.”
“Then why?”
“You know, just because two people get along doesn’t mean they can be in love.”
“You two more than just get along.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Why?”
“Do you know that he’s--” Aramis begins, then cuts himself off. “Has he talked to you about-- of course he has.”
“Talked to me about?”
“Athos, I can’t-- I can’t not have sex. Right? Could you?”
“Easily,” Athos drawls. “Been at it thirty-eight years.”
Aramis processes this for a moment, then glares. “I’m surrounded. Do you have any idea how weird that makes me feel?”
“Yes,” Athos snaps, feeling his temper really working loose now. “But in reverse.”
“So call me shallow. But if you don’t understand then don’t tell me what I should do!” Aramis’ head sinks into his hands. “It’s not as if I didn’t want to say yes. I hardly wanted to lie to him, but I hardly wanted to lose him. Hardly wanted to lose you or Charlie, either, but I think we see who won the custody battle there.”
That stings, and it’s meant to. Athos takes a deep breath, forces himself to calm.
“You haven’t lost me, Aramis,” Athos says, quietly. “You have every right to think that you did, and every right to call me out on it, but you haven’t. You have my word.”
Aramis deflates, once again sadder than he is angry, and begins tearing a napkin to shreds. It’s a few minutes before he speaks again.
“I put in for a transfer.”
“What?”
“I put in for a transfer,” Aramis repeats.
“Isn’t that a little extreme?”
“No. It isn’t. I-- I go through the doors every morning and all I can think about is how much Lincoln used to feel like home to me. Now I-- now it just doesn’t anymore.”
“You need to think more about this,” Athos orders. There’s less than two dozen schools in the city, and Aramis isn’t certified for any grade below 5th; still, when the whole universe is a building, anything outside that building seems distant, unreachable.
“They’ve already accepted,” Aramis admits. “East Side middle needs a new science teacher. They’re phasing in a more biology-heavy curriculum, and they said they’d love my input. Hey, don’t-- don’t look at me like that. It’s the other side of the city, not the other side of the world.”
“Just caught me off-guard,” Athos manages, finally.
“I know. Hey, can we get dessert? I mean, fuck it, right? Testing’s over and I broke my best friend’s heart and there was this Snickers cake in the display that looked incredible.”
Athos is not about to argue.
Aramis orders his Snickers cake with two scoops of chocolate ice cream, and Athos orders the coconut cake with vanilla. As soon as the cakes arrive, they devour them, along with two cups each of coffee. When they’re finishes Aramis pushes his plate away with a noise that manages to sound both satisfied and utterly exhausted.
A few minutes later they’re standing in the parking lot. Aramis has found a spot for his minivan just next to Athos’ car, and instead of making to leave he leans his back against Athos’ passenger door. Athos leans beside him.
Silence descends between them once again, and in the emptiness of it Athos realizes, for the hundredth time in the last half hour, that he and Aramis will not be working together next year. He pushes this down. Aramis looks the gloomiest that he has all lunch, which is saying something, and Athos is determined to be a better friend to him than he’s been of late.
“Hey,” Athos says, and Aramis looks up, expectantly. It’s the look that Athos hates the most, and all of his friends have done it at one point or another: the Athos-will-fix-everything look. The hope behind it breaks his heart.
“Hey,” he says again, a bit more quietly, and slings an arm around Aramis’ shoulders. Aramis slumps against him. “It’ll be okay,” Athos murmurs, because he’s not really sure how it will be okay, but it’s got to be. “Come over. We’ll have a drink.”
It’s a moment before the words take effect. Then Aramis smiles, raises his head, and pats Athos on the chest. “Rain check. I should not have eaten ice cream on an upset stomach.”
“Oh, for god’s sake--”
Aramis giggles, then swings around to grab Athos in a warm hug. “Thanks for getting lunch with me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow,” Athos promises, hugging back.
*
5:45am tomorrow comes, and Athos has a text waiting for him, from Porthos.
i did the shower cry thing, it reads, immediately followed by another message: didnt actually puke tho.
Athos tries to write back, but has no idea what to say. Instead he stares at his phone for half a minute before calling Porthos instead.
“Hey, Porthos,” he murmurs.
“Mornin’,” Porthos replies; his voice is garbled in a way that has nothing to do with the quality of the phone call.
“I’m guessing Aramis told you about his transfer.”
“Guessed right.”
“You sound awful.”
“Called just to compliment me?”
“I called to tell you to take a day,” Athos says, although to be honest this only occurs to me as the words pass his lips. But as soon as he hears himself, it makes perfect sense. Porthos had only been out those two days back in January when he had strep, and with less than two months of school left, there’s no shame at all in another. Still he expects Porthos to argue.
Porthos doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, then he sighs into the phone. “That sounds-- fantastic.”
“Go back to bed,” Athos encourages. “Sleep in, order a pizza, watch Netflix.”
“Call out with me.”
Athos winces. “I promised d’Artagnan I’d observe his US I today--”
Porthos huffs a laugh. “That’s all right. I didn’t really mean it. I mean, I did, but-- you know. Okay, lemme go call the hotline, it’s almost six. I’ll email you my plans in a few minutes, if you could print ‘em for the sub?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. Lemme go. Bye, Ath.”
“Bye, Porthos,” Athos replies, and hangs up.
The mood at school is grim. At least d’Artagnan, from whom Athos was fully expecting tears, takes things very well, and sees immediately to reassuring Aramis-- that he’ll love his new building, that they’ll still get together all the time.
Athos says nothing about Porthos, in accordance with the text he received.
Told the others im actually sick, he’d sent, around 6:15, and although Athos is fairly sure that they aren’t fooled, he plays along.
And so the next day, Tuesday, is when their new normal begins. Debate team is over for the year anyway, having not progresses beyond regionals. (This happened two years ago and they continued to meet for fun.) Porthos does not attend origami club, though he does not seem to mind that d’Artagnan and Athos still do. And so they balance. Aramis and Porthos are friendly, hardly darting into closets to escape one another; still the difference blurs the air like heat off blacktop.
*
May happens, according to the calendar. Functionally, though, it doesn’t. What happens in its place is a slog somewhat akin to holding one’s breath underwater: it stretches interminably for the duration, but once it’s over it feels like an eyeblink.
The roller-coaster of depression plunges down again. The few weeks of respite that had allowed Athos to catch his breath end abruptly, and with no discernable reason; he merely wakes one day to the familiar fog of misery.
It’s a Thursday. He calls out. He makes it in for Friday, but ends up calling out the following Tuesday because fuck it.
It’s almost June, and nobody gives a shit anyway. Nobody even notices, really.
At least that’s what he assumes.
The heatwave hits a little later than usual this year, not until the first full week of June, but still it hits hard. On Monday morning the building is the coolest it will be all week, and still Athos is already dripping sweat. Literally, dripping.
D’Artagnan is too, when he comes in, pit-stained by eight o’clock in the morning again, though he’s finally gotten around to buying some short sleeved-shirts. It hardly matters; he’s sweated his pale pink polo through in any case. Athos fans himself with an answer key as d’Artagnan drags the computer chair to Athos’ side and plops down.
“How was the lake?” he asks, brightly.
“The lake?”
“The one you went swimming in?”
Athos only glares.
“Right. Jesus, it’s fucking hot in here. I think I’d better put an ice pack down my crotch if I ever want to reproduce. Hah! Look at that! You almost smiled!”
“Almost,” Athos allows.
D’Artagnan runs the back of his hand along his upper lip, leans back in his chair, and pulls an orange post-it from his shirt pocket.
“So,” he begins. “Um. You remember asking me, what made up my mind to visit California?”
“Mm-hm.”
“And do you remember-- a few months ago, you told me I should consider, like-- seeing a therapist?”
To this question, Athos doesn’t respond.
“So, I did. And I think it’s helping, at least a little. And I just wanted to say-- I know one of the scariest things when you think about starting therapy is, like, that they’ll just completely shut you down, and tell you to stop being a whiny little orphan, or else tell you you’re hopeless and give up on you in ten minutes. But, like, this guy-- Conrad-- he hasn’t done any of that, and, like-- well, here’s his name. If you want to look him up. I officially vouch for him.”
Athos stares straight ahead, too heavy for movement, as d’Artagnan slips a post-it note into his hand, then takes the opportunity to squeeze their sweaty fingers together, gently. “Just a thought,” he mumbles, then he’s gone.
The post-it crumples in Athos’ fist as he presses his knuckles to his forehead.
*
The yearbook is dedicated to Amber Williams. On the first page there is only her name, dates, and senior portrait; on the second is a whole collage of pictures of her. Athos finds Porthos and Aramis in one. They’re standing at her sides, smiling brightly; it’s from graduation, and Amber is in her white cap and gown, Porthos and Aramis in their black.
His move away from them, though, back to Amber’s portrait. He never taught her, no, but now he thinks he remembers watching her debate at competitions he attended (though maybe that’s just guilt). It’s hard for him to process, is all.
It shouldn’t be. Death at a young age should not be hard for him to process at all-- and yet it still is, and he finds himself swept up in a tide of sympathy and disbelief that somebody with such a lovely smile-- no, that somebody, that somebody full stop-- should die still short of their twentieth birthday. Should just end, before really beginning.
And though he has never believed in the afterlife, Athos sends out a warm intention, in case Amber is somehow able to receive it.
Athos sniffs quietly, rubs his eyes, and turns the page. Why such an unsentimental person is still so fond of yearbooks, he doesn’t know, but he truly is. He has a shelf of them-- thirteen as a student, seventeen now as a teacher. Nearly forty years of life, and thirty of them can be found in hardcover format; he’s only missing ages zero to four, and his time at college.
He flips to the faculty pages. On the second page he finds his friends, Porthos and Aramis in their secret service get up, protecting Nancy DiLisi from d’Artagnan, whose picture looks misplaced from the seniors’ page.
A few pages over he finds himself. The good parts are his sweater, and the fact that he remembered to get a haircut before picture day this year. Still what stands out is the look in his eyes. The little black-and-white yearbook Athos looks exhausted, even moreso than the Athos that looks back at him from the mirror every day.
He turns the page.
By force of habit he finds he’s not looking for pictures of himself, but of Porthos and Aramis. Besides the dedication page, a few pictures of them are scattered throughout. There’s one on the debate team page, of course, as well as a picture from Halloween with them both decked out as pirates; the origami club is unofficial and has not garnered its own place, but still in the candids section there is an image of Aramis crouched in front of Porthos, helping him fold his paper.
Then there’s one from winter semi. Porthos and Aramis are dancing, left hands joined, right hands on the other’s shoulders; bachata, Athos thinks, recalling the conversation after Aramis offered to teach him.
Bachata’s Dominican, ain’t it?
Yeah.
You’re Chilean.
So?
It’s-- not the same thing.
You know that, and I know that, but the world expects certain things from Latinos….
In the picture they are both grinning like madmen-- sweating like madmen too.
Nearby Athos is surprised to find a picture of the four of them. They’re in a row on the bleachers; Aramis has his arms around Porthos and d’Artagnan, and d’Artagnan is tugging Athos himself in close. He can’t remember taking this picture. Obviously they’ve come out to support their school in some athletic event or another, but he has no specific memory of this-- this moment in which all four of them squished in together and smiled.
Porthos’ face is bright. He’s looking at the camera, not Aramis, but still they fit together, Aramis’ hair brushing Porthos’ chin, Porthos’ hand on Aramis’ waist. D’Artagnan, on Aramis’ other side, is grinning widely. It’s probably just a basic grin, but, knowing him as he does, Athos sees not only happiness but relief, and exhaustion, and the surprise that contentment brings after a long run of sadness.
Athos is not looking at the camera. Instead is face is turned, regarding his three friends fondly; his hands are in his lap but d’Artagnan’s arm is tightly around his shoulder.
Oh, d’Artagnan. Who completed them in a way that Athos hardly been able to understand. And here they were, breaking anyway.
Athos keeps his yearbook at school only long enough for his students to sign it, as he knows they’ll want to; then he takes it home and stows it away on the shelf.
*
The day of graduation is hot and humid and feels, as always, like a slice of an alternate universe that collided with their own. Crammed into the faculty bathroom with three other teachers, Athos struggles to make his robes lay right. Between the hood and the gown and his trousers and shirt there’s just too damn much fabric swimming around his body, and Don Bowden panting like a bulldog as he tries to get his cap to stay on his bald head isn’t helping.
“Quit showin’ off, LaFere,” Don huffs, as Athos inexpertly bobby-pins his cap in place. “That’ll all be gone by fifty.”
Athos smiles awkwardly, says nothing. Most of the time he feels old as fuck, but right now he looks like a kid playing dress up. They all do. Don’s cap won’t stay on and Joel is being visibly strangled by his hood and Bill has opted to wear shorts beneath his gown and looks oddly naked.
Athos feels an odd wash of fondness for them, as he heads to the auditorium.
The faculty, like the students, process in and sit according to height order-- the only order in which Aramis will ever end up near Athos. Measured scientifically, it’s probable that Karen Lopez should fit in between them. But whereas the students are lined up and scrutinized to within millimeters, the teachers are mostly left to their own devices. Athos finds Aramis, stands directly beside him as they all queue in the hallway. A glance to the back of the line shows Porthos and d’Artagnan just two spaces apart themselves; they both wave when Athos nods at them.
Aramis is pale in his black and blue robes. Absently he fiddles with the pins holding Athos’ cap in place, adjusting them to perfection, though his own cap is askew atop his mass of coffee bean curls. Athos smiles, but says nothing; he has nothing to say.
He watches Aramis throughout the ceremony, in sideways glances between rounds of applause. He’s not sure what he’s watching for. At least not until the valedictorian’s speech is over, and a gentle exhalation draws his attention once again.
There are tears in Aramis’ eyes. This startles Athos; tonight is the eighth graduation he’s attended with the man, and he has never before reacted like this. He’s much more the one to hoot and whistle obnoxiously. Athos himself is typically the one who has to excuse himself to the faculty bathroom and weep his way through fistful after fistful of toilet paper (and, occasionally, Porthos’ collar).
Maybe out of concern for Aramis, that doesn’t happen now. Instead he rests his hand on Aramis’ knee and remains with him in a tiny pocket of stillness, while up on stage the graduates throw their caps and the faculty and audience burst into applause.
The faculty head out into the hallway, swarmed immediately by the new graduates. Athos mills around, offering congratulations and agreeing to pictures; he quickly loses track of Aramis, and of Porthos and d’Artagnan as well.
After half an hour or so, he heads outside. The sun’s almost down, and the twilight air is damp and thick with insects; still it is fresher and calmer than the noisy staleness inside.
Suddenly Athos has energy for nothing but shucking his robes off and driving home.
*
The last day of school is as useless as it ever is. The students stay in their homerooms all day and Athos, with a homeroom of seniors, has just over a dozen kids actually attend. (Not that he expected any different.) He brings a pile of DVDs, turns on the Smart Board, and lets the kids at it; they put on Pirates of the Caribbean but then ignore it in favor of rhapsodizing about summer or else weeping on each other’s shoulders, swearing never-ending friendship.
Thank god it’s noon dismissal.
Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan meet up at Athos’ and carpool to Tir Na Nog, where they push aside their collective gloom to toast the end of d’Artagnan’s first year. D’Artagnan regales them with his top five favorite teacher moments. Then, although he hasn’t in months now, he gets a little weepy, and thanks them both at length, though with no real articulation. For their friendship in general, Athos supposes. He calms down quickly in any case, blows his nose on a napkin, and goes off to order the next round.
He’s just set the new drinks down when a familiar voice joins the conversation. Aramis stands, a little farther away than necessary, and stares helplessly at the tablecloth.
“Can we talk?”
At his side, Athos feels Porthos stiffen; he gestures to the empty seat besides d’Artagnan.
Aramis slips into it. He gives d’Artagnan a smile when the boys pats his back affectionately-- but the smile fades fast. “Happy last day,” he mumbles, and everybody echoes him quietly.
“So, my classroom’s all packed. Treville said to leave the boxes, and the district will take care of moving them before September. I give it pretty even odds that I ever see any of my shit again.”
Athos smiles, and d’Artagnan chuckles quietly.
Aramis sighs.
“Listen, I-- I won’t crash your party. It just felt wrong, not to see you at all on the last day. And I wanted to say-- Porthos, I wanted to tell you-- just--
“I miss you,” Aramis says, without embellishment.
Athos takes a good, long look at him and realizes just how evident this is on his face. His skin is ashen and his beard is untrimmed. He looks ten years older than he did six months ago, so bright and alive that December night-- that January morning-- when he kissed Porthos smack on the lips beneath a snowstorm of rainbow confetti.
“I caused this. I know that. Please don’t think I don’t know that. But I-- Porthos, I-- I haven’t slept much since it happened. I’ve thrown up breakfast on the side of route 80, like, at least once a week.” His laugh sounds like a violin that’s been gathering dust for half a century. “I’m a mess. A fucking mess. And-- I don’t know if I have the right, to ask this of you. But I’ve got to, honestly, I’ve just-- got to. So.”
Aramis takes a deep breath.
“Can we try, at least? To work something out?”
Porthos stares at his placemat. “Work what out?”
“I dunno. I just said try. Try to be friends again, I guess.”
“Not lovers?”
“I thought that was pretty well decided,” Aramis replies, quietly.
“You make it sound like you weren’t the one who decided it.”
Aramis scowls. “Okay, so shoot me-- I care! About sex. The sex thing. I can’t say I don’t. Can we please-- Jesus-- Athos, Charlie, I love you both, but-- can we please go talk? You and me?”
Porthos grunts. Athos takes this as an affirmative response and slides out of the booth to let Porthos exit; there’s a moment in which he thinks he’s understood wrong, but then Porthos slides out too and he and Aramis leave together. Athos sits back down.
D’Artagnan regards him for a minute; then he picks up a menu and spins it thoughtfully on one metal corner. “When I was a kid,” he begins, “I used to make money under the table translating menus in touristy areas into French.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. I mean, I don’t want to say it was a full-time gig, but I probably did six or seven. That was before google translate, of course.”
“Did you get a lot of French tourists in your area?”
“No,” d’Artagnan admits, and laughs. “But I was a cute kid.”
The server comes back, and d’Artagnan orders another plate of Irish nachos, a plate of mozzarella sticks, and a pitcher of beer. Once that’s done, he puts his head in his hands, looking suddenly tired.
“Athos?”
“Mm?”
“Can you just-- can you tell me, please-- that the second year is easier? By at least a little?”
“The second year is easier,” Athos promises, “by more than just a little.”
“If I can sleep more than five hours a night, I’ll be happy.”
“I think you can reasonably expect that.”
“Porthos asked me to do the debate team with him.” He glances up, looking a little hesitant, and Athos pictures him asking Porthos, you’re sure Athos wouldn’t rather, right?
“Good,” Athos says, at once. “Represent for the humanities teachers. We’ve more of a place on debate teams anyway.”
“Porthos says logic is the foundation of all academic subjects.”
“Tell Porthos I’m telling the art teacher on him,” Athos replies.
D’Artagnan’s smile is wide and easy and a little bit sleepy. He crosses his arms and rests his chin against them, gazing up at Athos with bright brown eyes, looking just like-- well-- a puppy.
“I’m gonna miss observing you next year.”
“Oh? You aren’t going to miss me observing you?”
“No, not really. It was helpful as hell, but fucking intimidating. Athos-- I know the captain sort of forced you into mentoring me. But I’m really, really glad you said yes.”
“So am I,” Athos replies.
D’Artagnan sits back up, shakes himself a little. “Constance interviewed with our district.”
“Did she?”
“Yeah. That would be crazy, wouldn’t it? She hasn’t heard anything yet, but-- man.”
The food-- the second round of food, to be precise-- arrives, and they dig into it. Athos can’t say he’s not distracted by the enormity of the conversation happening out in the parking lot. But d’Artagnan keeps up a stream of chatter and this, along with the nachos and cheese sticks, is enough to keep him from worrying too much.
Still he jumps a little when his phone buzzes. It’s a message from Porthos, to their four-way group text.
So kissing is nice, it reads.
Aramis just sends a lip print emoji.
Im a disaster right now, Porthos adds. come out to the van.
Aramis sends a crying face emoji.
D’Artagnan looks up from his own phone, having seen the same messages. “That’s good, right?” he prompts, grinning.
They get the server’s attention and ask for the bill; when it comes, d’Artagnan slips his card into the folder and hands it back before Athos can stop him.
“You didn’t let me pay you for mentoring,” he mumbles, coloring a little. “Let me get today, at least.”
On another day Athos might feel more inclined to argue. Now, though, he wants to do exactly what d’Artagnan wants to do, which is get outside as quickly as possible. Thus, as soon as d’Artagnan has signed the check, they bolt. Aramis’ minivan stands out, as always, and they jog towards it and knock urgently on the sliding door.
It opens, revealing Porthos and Aramis side-by-side in the middle row. Smeared tears are drying all over Porthos’ cheeks, but he isn’t crying anymore.
Athos scans him top to bottom and proclaims, “more composed than I anticipated.”
Porthos snorts, and holds his hand up for Athos to observe, and all right, maybe he’s not entirely composed, because he’s shaking like a leaf. Aramis snatches his hand and kisses the palm. Then, seeming to remember the presence of the others, he colors. “Sorry. I guess it’ll take some time for you to get used to--”
“Thirty seconds,” Athos replies, “which have passed.”
“I’m really happy for you guys,” d’Artagnan beams, looking perhaps a bit shy but not at all awkward. “I mean, I assume-- you’re good?”
“We needa talk. A lot,” Porthos adds, and Aramis puts his head on Porthos’ chest and breathes out, a little harshly. “But we’re good. Yeah. We’re good.”
Aramis lifts his head, pecks a kiss on Porthos’ lips. “We’re very good, in fact.”
“And a little tired.”
“And more than a little tired,” Aramis agrees. He buries his face in Porthos’ chest again, then digs in his pocket for his keys and holds them out blindly. “S’mebody else drive, please?”
Athos groans; his utter joy at this development has not erased his utter hatred for driving Aramis’ minivan. But d’Artagnan primly snatches the keys.
“Did you guys pay?” Porthos wonders, almost absently, as d’Artagnan pulls away.
“No,” Athos calls back, from the passenger seat. “We dined and dashed. I hope you weren’t planning to go back to Tir Na Nog again.”
“They’ll forget by September,” Porthos replies, voice muffled-- when Athos glances over his shoulder he realizes it’s muffled by Aramis’ hair.
They stay this way until they get to the highway. Then Athos hears a quiet stir.
“Sit up,” Porthos tells Aramis, quietly. “I know you don’t wanna let go but you’re gonna get carsick as it is, ridin’ in back. It’s all right. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
There’s another quiet shuffle. “’kay,” Aramis replies, quietly. “Where’re we going, anyway?”
D’Artagnan, behind the wheel, bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, that’s a really good question!”
“Well, where are you driving to?” Athos poses, reasonably.
“Um, your house? It’s sort of the instinct, when we’re all in the car together, isn’t it?”
Athos almost laughs. He realizes now that he’s a little tipsy to be driving anyway, and so the thought of heading to his house is actually quite a pleasant one; nevertheless he’s not sure that sentiment will be shared.
“We have on our hands,” he reminds d’Artagnan, “a newly reunited pair of STEM teachers. It’s possible they may want some time to themselves.” Athos looks back in time to see Porthos and Aramis glance at each other and smile.
“Not on your life,” Porthos says. “The last day is always ours. Ours as in all of us,” he adds, and d’Artagnan grins helplessly.
Then Aramis moans.
“Please don’t have sex while I’m within earshot,” Athos requests.
“Christ, you really are a virgin, aren’t you? That wasn’t a sex moan, my friend, that was an I-really-hope-I-don’t-- ugh-- don’t-puke moan.”
“We’re close,” d’Artagnan assures him, pulling off the highway. And indeed, less than two minutes later, they are entering the streets of Athos’ development, coming to a smooth stop in front of his house.
D’Artagnan kills the engine, but nobody moves quite yet. Athos closes his eyes and breathes in what might, for all he knows, be the last time the four of them sit silently in Aramis’ minivan together.
He does not open his eyes until Porthos speaks, a few minutes later.
“How you feelin’?” he asks quietly.
“Less nauseous. Just as in love. Maybe more in love.” Athos looks back to see Aramis crane up and peck a kiss on Porthos’ lips; Porthos deepens it but Aramis pushes him away and grunts, “less nauseous, not not nauseous.”
Porthos bursts out laughing. “So I don’t know, so you’ll have to tell me-- is that supposed to be alluring or something?”
“Everything I do is alluring. Can’t believe it’ll all be lost on you.”
“Ain’t lost on me,” Porthos soothes. “Just because it doesn’t turn me on don’t mean it’s lost on me.” He presses a kiss to Aramis’ temple. “Like-- I love that stupid hat you wear. Gives you hat hair. I love the way you pop your knees, constantly. An’ how you only have white towels so you can bleach the shit out of ‘em, because you love the smell of bleach.”
“I love that you get cold when it’s 71 degrees out…”
Porthos frowns. “No I don’t.”
Now Aramis laughs. “I love how you never get any pop culture references, ever.”
“Oh,” Porthos says, suddenly. “Car’s still at Nog.”
This dose of pragmatism breaks the spell and they tumble from the minivan, into the afternoon heat then into the air-conditioned bliss of Athos’ living room. Aramis and Porthos take over the sofa. Athos sits in his armchair, and watches as d’Artagnan walks to an empty span of floor, takes a deep breath, then lies down face first.
“Oh my god!” he moans. “I fucking did it!”
Then, quite calmly, he rolls onto his side and grins up at them all, sleepily.
“Any celebration plans?” Porthos prompts. “Possibly involvin’ certain redheaded teacher-to-be?”
“Oh! No, god, don’t I wish. No, but I did-- um, I went to the bakery yesterday and bought a tiramisu-- not a slice, I mean, like a whole tiramisu-- and I’m gonna eat the whole thing.” He shrugs the shoulder not pressed to the hardwood, and grins.
“Learned from the best!” Porthos roars back. “Last day of my first year I ate a pizza an’ a half-- an’ the other half for breakfast!”
“I literally just got reflux at the thought of that,” Aramis sighs, and kisses Porthos’ nose. “Me, I just got drunk that day.”
“An’ drunk-dialed me.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah,” Porthos affirms, laughing again. “You honestly don’t remember?”
“No. What did I say?”
“No idea. You were drunk an’ I just wanted to eat my pizza in peace. Mm. Oh. Can we get pizza tonight?”
“Of course,” Aramis agrees. “The two of us, or the four of us, or--?” He looks down at Athos, who flounders a little at the abrupt inclusion.
“You’re always welcome to stay the night,” he replies. “Though I’d understand the desire for a bit of privacy. New love, and all that-- or really rather overdue love.”
“What do you say, babe?” Aramis hums. “Are we snuggling here or at my place, or your-- hey.”
His voice is suddenly low and gentle, and Athos glances up to see a new tear trickling down Porthos’ cheek.
“Baby, you’re not, like--” Aramis takes Porthos’ hands. “Did I do something? This isn’t because of how fabulous I am, is it, because I’m not really that fabulous--”
He’s teasing, but there’s also something like fear in his eyes.
But Porthos snorts. “Come down off your pedestal. I just missed you, you bastard.” He sucks in a breath, scrubs at his eyes. “I missed all four of us, together. Y’know?”
D’Artagnan moves so fast that Athos doesn’t even realize what’s happening before the boy is already half in Porthos’ lap, arms around Porthos’ shoulders. Porthos bursts out in soggy laughter.
“Ath?” he prompts. Then d’Artagnan and Aramis look up too.
There’s a small slot of space left next to Aramis; Athos gets up, goes to the couch, and fits into it wordlessly. He presses himself along Aramis’ side. Slowly he lets his body go slack, until he is laying against his friend; then he closes his eyes.
They all stay like this, for a long moment.
It’s Athos who gets up first, goes into the kitchen for no real reason and stands staring out the window. He feels shaky and oddly overheated. In his heart there’s a profound urge to dash back to the living room and hurl himself back into the midst of his friends’ embrace, but in his gut there’s a need not to be touched.
Porthos walks the line perfectly, as always. He enters quietly, lays his hand on the cool granite of the countertop, a few inches from Athos’.
“I hope I don’t have to say this,” Porthos murmurs, voice low and still a little gruff. “But me bein’ with Aramis doesn’t change anything with you an’ me. I’m here for you. An’ you’re there for me, an’ I’m gonna take you up on it, often.”
Athos nods. He believes Porthos, although he knows that he isn’t entirely right; perhaps the spirit of their relationship won’t change, but he hardly thinks they’ll spend much time cuddling in bed together now that Porthos has an actual boyfriend.
This doesn’t hurt quite as much as expected, though it still hurts a little.
“I’m okay,” Athos murmurs. For the first time it occurs to him that his rather abrupt exit may have made him appear otherwise. And is he otherwise-- both okay and not okay, in equal measure.
“I know. You’re jus’ a quiet man who’s had a loud ten months, an’ your brain’s a little fried. It’s okay. How about we all head out an’ give you some space-- an’ we’ll get lunch or dinner, Monday or Tuesday. Yeah?”
Athos nods again, and moves his hand to rest atop Porthos’; out of the corner of his eye he sees Porthos observe him carefully a moment before pulling him into a loose embrace.
Then Porthos lets go, and returns to the living room.
“’m pooped,” Athos hears him say. He goes back in himself, just in time to see Porthos sitting on the couch and Aramis plopping at once into his lap.
“Can I take you home?” Aramis murmurs, softly. “And not have sex with you but definitely kiss you more?”
Porthos smirks. “Mm-hm.”
“And if you keep the rest of your clothes on, will you just let me-- take off your bowtie?”
“Sure?”
“With my teeth?”
Porthos blushes, deeply.
“As happy as I am for you,” Athos drawls, “I do not require algorithmic detail.”
Aramis tumbles to his feet, goes to Athos’ side, and smacks a kiss to his cheek. “We’ll get out of your hair. See you next week sometime?”
Athos nods and, feeling very French, kisses Aramis’ cheeks in return.
Porthos comes over and hugs him again, then he and Aramis both hug d’Artagnan as well. Then, with a final smile, hands locked together, they leave.
Athos takes a deep breath, then another, then steps backwards towards the couch and lets himself fall gracelessly down to it.
D’Artagnan sits beside him. At first all he does is throw an arm around Athos’ neck, but within thirty seconds he’s also laid his head on Athos’ shoulder.
“I’m planting a garden in your backyard,” he announces. “By the way.”
Whatever Athos was expecting to hear, it wasn’t this.
“All right,” he murmurs, then can’t help but smile. “I’ve never had a garden.”
“You don’t have to do anything with it. Just keep me company. I just thought it’d be polite to give a heads up,” d’Artagnan adds, and cuddles closer into Athos. After a full minute of trying to resist, Athos lets his head drop down to rest on d’Artagnan’s.
He doesn’t realize he’s closed his eyes until he opens them. D’Artagnan is shifting beneath him, stretching, cracking his ankles; eventually he pushes to his feet.
“I’m gonna head home. I’ll see you soon, mm?”
“See you soon, d’Artagnan,” Athos confirms, smiling back, and d’Artagnan waves at him, bounces once on his feet, and leaves.
And the house goes silent.
Athos sprawls out on the area rug, feeling calm and lonely and oddly adrift at the thought of no commitments, no structure, for two months. For two months.
He is permitted to drift approximately ten minutes before his phone buzzes. It’s d’Artagnan.
how do you feel about carrots? the message reads, promptly followed by:
peas?
Athos thinks a moment before replying, Yes; no; basil?, to which d’Artagnan sends a long stream of smiley faces.
its the perfect time for basil!
Is it a good time for strawberries? Athos asks, warming up to this venture.
nope, d’Artagnan replies, with a sad face. too late for strawberries. next year!
And when do we begin?
The speech bubble flickers its little grey ellipse, and then the message arrives:
im free tomorrow? if you are?
Athos feels himself smile.
*
The next day Athos wakes without an alarm, sometime around six thirty.
It’s summer.