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He’s sick of fighting, sick of wasting good liquor to make sure his limbs won’t rot off, sick of putting needles through his skin to force it shut, sick of burning his chest with his own dagger to pull bullets out. Some frail part of him remembers—his lungs are made to hold breath, not metal; and needlework is meant to be a maiden’s pastime, not a soldier’s; and alcohol is meant to make one grin, not wince—but, he’s not that naïve boy now, is he? Merde, he’s not sure there’s enough of that fool left for him to say he ever was, too. He’s a rat now, in the eyes of the king’s little marionettes and in the eyes of the Duke alike. He swirls the sword with less finesse but more force, blood flashing before his eyes. Oh, they will see.
Blinded by anger, he moves a second too late (the pain in his strong arm is almost white, the blade must have gotten to a bone, Christ) and stumbles backwards, trips, falls in that bastard’s feet. Panic washes over him. No, Lucien Pierre Grimaud won’t be slaughtered like a dog by this blue-cross puppet—he can’t grasp his sword back, his strong arm is completely useless, if he doesn’t stop the bleeding anytime soon he’s going to faint in the musketeer’s fucking feet and no, no, this is not according to plan, no—“Get up,” the bastard has the audacity to growl. Lucien rolls his eyes, partly because of the pain but mostly because of the fucking nerve that guy has. “Would if I could, your grace,” he spits out, unable to focus on the fucker’s face as his vision swims. He has to do something about the hand, fast. “Did me in pretty good, you,” he stutters now, stretches his mouth in a grin for good measure. It feels like the world is all razors and ice. Last thing he sees is the bastard’s dark shape leaning closer.
***
He’s woken by the sound of someone singing faintly and water splashing. His eyes flutter open, and he groans, lifts an arm to cover his face from the bloody sun—and it only hurts a little, more of a pull than the paralyzing explosion from earlier. The sounds stop, perhaps upon him accidentally vocalizing his awakening, and oh fuck, that was a stupid thing to do, he should have kept quiet, he doesn’t even know where he is. Some commotion seems to take place a wall from where he’s lain down, and then a door opens. Lucien mutters out a rather rich string of curses when he recognizes the man. Merde. “So you’ve woken at last,” Athos notes while walking around the room, way too casual for a man clad just in a towel at the same place as his rival. Then again, it isn’t like Lucien can do him much harm in his current state. He groans at the realization. (He makes sure to stare at his feet, not to give the other privacy but to save his soul’s peace, if he even has any left. Yet, he still manages to notice, and in part appreciate. Athos sure has filled up neatly. Lucien can’t figure out how he feels about the scars all over the bastard’s body, but he’s more than convinced he doesn’t give a shit, anyways.) “Want a drink?”
Lucien gives him a bemused look. “I doubt you want me poisoned, given you didn’t kill me by now, so—why? D’ya want to get me drunk so you can do with me as you please? I heard about your student.” Athos stills at that, visibly disquieted. “That’s… not what I meant, you’ve been unconscious for a day, thought you’d be thirsty.” Prior to the mention, Lucien wasn’t, but now that he realizes he almost cries out. His throat feels drier than a field in midsummer. He reluctantly nods to the offer and the musketeer pours him a glass, hands it to him in a rather stiff manner. The wine is rich, not too sour and not too sweet; Lucien can tell it’s the costly sort, and tries not to think about how old the bottle might be. “What of my student?” Athos asks, his attempt at nonchalant almost making it. Lucien grins. “You deny it?” “Can’t deny without knowing what you accuse me of.” So this is how he wants to play it. Alright. Lucien can muse him for a bit.
“Rumor goes, a young musketeer-to-be wanted to get higher in the ranks faster than the process is, and the captain doesn’t agree, but his favorite swordsman promises to put in some good words if the boy eases the loneliness of his nights,” Lucien recites, smirking. Athos shakes his head, groans at the end. “That’s a horribly twisted way of telling it.” “What, you never slept with the lad?” Lucien raises him an eyebrow, Athos sighs. “Did so, however it was on his accord as much as on mine, and had nothing to do with his rise to position.” Oh. “So it was an affair?” “A mutual agreement, if you may. We were both in… rather misfortunate amorous situations at the time. Then his and Constance’s relationship developed, and we ended things.”
Lucien didn’t actually think the red guards’ drunken ramblings held any truth to them; he’d taken them for slander that, while entertaining, still had to be false. And now, Athos has voluntarily admitted to sharing his bed with another man—he really must not expect to let Lucien walk alive out of his current holding, then. The thought is still a queer one, that Athos has slept with a man. Lucien has seen him with the riotous girl… “Share this if you shall, but aren’t you with this Sylvie lass, now?” Athos’ face falls. “We’ve… ceased meeting, for the time being.”
Well, this will brighten up Winters’ day, if he gets to tell her.
Yet it doesn’t please Lucien as he thought it would, seeing Athos hurt. It’s been a while, and the thirst for vengeance that he once held seems to have diminished; he’d kick himself if he could. No sympathy for the pig. “So,” he starts, “you’re attracted to both, then?” Athos hums, then frowns slightly. “And this is your business… how, exactly?” Lucien smirks. “Well, you’re gonna keep me here awhile, I reckon, and I’m not a singing type of bird, me, so this is ‘bout the best we can talk of.” This wins him an entire half-smile. “I suppose that’s fair,” Athos nods. “Yes, I find myself drawn to gents and ladies. Don’t you?” “Ladies less often,” Lucien laughs dryly. He downs the rest of his glass and Athos silently pours him more wine. “When’d you find out you’re not straight?”
Lucien didn’t mean for the question to leave his lips. He regrets voicing it immediately, winces as he realizes he’s said it. “Uh, you don’t have to answer that.” Mostly because he really doesn’t want to hear the answer. Athos, of course, has no way of knowing this, and raises an eyebrow at him in curiosity. “I’m not sure, frankly,” he mutters, seemingly to himself. He sips at his own wine, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “There wasn’t anyone to be interested in, when I was a kid. What with living in a mansion with just my family and some servants. There were always the villagers and their children, but I was terribly introverted a lad, so I never played with them. First I experienced any amorous afflictions at the age of fourteen, if I recall correctly.” Lucien really doesn’t want to hear this.
Yet he doesn’t manage to say anything in time, and Athos continues. “Our old butler’d been so old he passed away, God grant him peace, so father found this lovely woman to tend to the place and keep us lads prim and proper. She had two kids, a two-year-old girl and a boy my age. He was a thunderstorm with limbs, I tell ya, fierce and unstoppable with a sword in arm, though brother often managed to sort him ugly, but that was mostly Thomas being the bear he was. But he, the boy, he could be gentle just as well, with his sister and with wounded animals and with me, eventually. I remember,” Athos chuckles lightly, points to his upper lip and Lucien knows what the man’s going to say, “when I got this, I’d taken a mighty trip down some stairs, and his mum had stitched me up already but I was so displeased, looking at myself in the tall mirror in the hallway and whining that I’d gotten ugly. He told me, it was so sweet, that I could never be anything but beautiful.” Of course, Lucien thinks to himself, of fucking course he’ll remember this, Christ.
“So this lad,” Lucien interrupts him because he can’t listen to this shit, “what happened with him? He alive?” “I honestly don’t know,” Athos shakes his head, his voice so full of regret that Lucien feels bile rising in his throat. He pushes it down with wine. “Why, you’re not keeping touch?” “I tried, sent him letters and all, but I never heard from him. See, his mom, she’d found herself a better position in another village, not even three years had she lived with us. I never got their exact address, the new one I mean, but I gave father the letters and asked him to send them, he assured me he had, I just never got any back is all… Are you alright?” Lucien grins at that, as if saying “no” would matter any. He motions for Athos to hand him the bottle, and the musketeer does so warily. Lucien takes a big swig, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and finally looks at Athos, really looks. He hasn’t stopped grinning, and he doesn’t think he ever could, but it’s no happy look on him, he assumes, as Athos seems increasingly disturbed.
“You really don’t recognize me, do you?” he says in his sweetest tone. Athos frowns. “I know you were at that battlefield, but I can’t remember seeing—“ “Not from the bloody battlefield,” Lucien can’t recognize the sound as his own voice. “What’s my name, Athos?” The bastard has the audacity to give him a confused look. “Er, Grimaud, what are you…” “My first name. C’mon, that’s an easy one, you should know this.” Athos squints at him. “Lucien, was it not?” Lucien takes another swig of wine. Waits. Waits some more. Athos suddenly pales. “Luci, holy shit,” he breathes out, moves as if to touch Lucien’s face. “Get your hands away from me,” he snarls, making the other flinch. “Oh, father said she found herself a better job,” he isn’t even trying to mimic Athos’ voice, only attempting not to yell yet, “How dare you. You can’t honestly tell me you believed this bullshit, you can’t tell me it wasn’t your fault—“ “Luci, Jesus Christ, what happened?”
He’s not heard Athos speak these words in this tone for twenty-four years.
Hearing them again after all this time feels like his insides have been swapped with a beautiful ice sculpture, all spikes and blades against his ribcage. “You wanna know what happened? Your loving pa told my mum she couldn’t keep raising his precious sons since she failed with me. Kicked us out, wrote to all who could offer ma a job not to because of her abomination of a son. It was the peak of winter, if you remember, and I’ve never been that great a hunter,” Lucien shrugs, staring at a crook in the wall opposite of him. “And Marie’d gotten some sort of cold recently, nothing severe, if we could’ve stayed indoors she’d have been all fine in a week. We couldn’t.” He turns his gaze to Athos, wants him to feel the pain he did that January morning. “I had to bury her with my own two arms, Olivier. Couldn’t get her tiny body in a coffin, couldn’t put a tombstone where she lays. She was just learning how to write.” His voice is calm, failing to waver even as the image of his dirty hands comes back to him. Athos, in contrast, looks lost, his eyes red at the corners. “I didn’t think…” he whispers, and Lucien smiles at that, the inside of his mouth feels charred. “No, you couldn’t, always trusting your pa, right? How could he possibly fail you—”
Athos raises a finger, squints in a perplexed manner. “Wait, what did father mean about you?” Oh, this is rich. “What do you think, Oli? Oh, are you saying you didn’t go running to daddy when the servant’s boy dared to kiss you?” “I kissed you first,” Athos presses, that righteous anger returning to his voice. Just like Lucien remembers him. “I kissed you first, Luci, and you know I’d never tell him about this! If you’re saying he knew, it wasn’t because of me.” “Who else, then?” Lucien snarls again. Athos starts laughing, abruptly and manically. “Thomas. Thomas knew, I… Jesus, Thomas must have seen us that day, he’d been teasing me for weeks, and he kept on bringing your name up months after you’d left, how did I forget about that?!”
Well, Lucien has to admit to himself that this makes much more sense. Thomas was always crude to him. Plus, he’s heard what he did to Winters, why she killed him. Giving away his little brother’s secret doesn’t sound that out of character…
He’s been blaming Olivier all these years. Guilt starts nagging at his brain.
The musketeer almost collapses next to him, back to the cold wall, face blank. Lucien silently hands him the bottle of wine, watches him struggle to lift the neck of it to his lips, his hands shaking violently. When he finally manages and swallows, he closes his eyes, presses the back of his head to the wall as well. “I don’t suppose that saying I’m… sorry… would help any,” he utters, in audible effort to keep his voice still. Lucien turns to look at the man that has become of the boy he once loved. He looks drained of all energy and will to do anything; somewhere deep inside, seeing him like this pains Lucien. He wants to ignore it, would kill to come back to the boiling anger that used to fill his veins at the mere thought of the name de la Ferre—yet now that he’s heard the rest of the story, their story, he finds himself doubting the other man ever did anything to provoke that hatred.
“It wasn’t your fault,” the words slip out before he can think them over, in a tone he hasn’t used in decades. Olivier is just shaking his head, eyes tightly shut, so Lucien reaches and touches his shoulder, insecure and light as a feather. When that warrants no reaction, Lucien’s fingers climb higher, breeze over the man’s neck, until they’re grazing his jawline and he shrugs away. “How can you even touch me?” Olivier spits out, tries to get up on his feet only to slump back against the wall, dropping the now-empty bottle in the process. His eyes snap open at the sound of the crash, and in this moment he’s become again the frightened boy that accidentally broke his father’s favorite vase. Lucien fails to suppress a smirk; he outright laughed twenty-five years ago, called the other the most graceful creature to walk the earth with a joking tone. The situation at hand invites no laughter, and yet, he smiles, fondness overcoming his whole being, its warmth creeping softly down his frozen veins. He rises to his feet, albeit with some difficulty, and extends his good hand at Olivier, palm facing upwards.
It’s not even about wanting to forgive Olivier anymore—Lucien realizes that’s already been dealt with the very second he heard the other own up to kissing him.
(Years after years he has thought himself an intruder, certain their whole play at lovers has been one-sided at best, convincing himself every sundown that his foolish infatuation brought Death to swing Her scythe at his infant sister, that his feelings were never mirrored in Oli’s heart and they still cost him three lives. He’s equal parts elated and terrified to find himself wrong.)
Olivier frowns at Lucien’s gesture, looks up with juvenile hesitation, uncharacteristic of the man of authority he now is but instead reminding of the shy youth Lucien was willing to fight to the death for once. Still, even. The assassin smiles. “It wasn’t your fault, Oli. C’mere.”
Olivier’s fingers touch Lucien’s, gingerly, the movement excruciatingly slow. They both stare wordlessly at their entwined hands for a moment, then Olivier’s gaze catches Lucien’s and the spell of innocence breaks. Lucien knows he’ll have to make the second move too, so he pulls the musketeer closer, until the tips of their noses are a breath apart. Holding on tightly to Olivier’s waist with his good hand, he carefully lifts the wounded one and hooks his forefinger under the musketeer’s chin. He wants to kiss these scarred lips again. “Oli, do you—“ “God, Luci, I’ve craved you for the past two decades,” the other whispers, and that’s all the invitation needed.
They kiss like they’re fifteen again, yet Lucien senses they could be fifty-five just as well; nothing would change, as nothing has—Olivier’s lips are hesitant for a breath’s time, then he sighs against Lucien’s mouth right before biting his lower lip, his fingers twist in the hair at the nape of Lucien’s neck as their tongues meet. It feels like they’re following a script, but this is the only one not handed to them by authorities or by parents or by life or by God, the only one they wrote themselves.
Olivier’s bed is in the other room. They stumble on the way there, guided by the musketeer’s muscle memory alone, giggling and moaning and discarding linen shirts and leather pants almost in a trance. Lucien has always dreamt of the other on top of him, their bodies pressed flush against each other, skin sticking to skin. Olivier laughs at that, and it’s the happiest sound that’s left his lips all evening. “Luc, I’ve never, I mean, I’m usually not the one…” and well, of fucking course. Lucien should have known, what with the other’s insecurities, disdain for control, disbelief that he has earned the right to dominate anything and anyone. Some things don’t change. He simply smirks, props himself up on his good arm to readjust. Olivier looks at him, the outer corners of his eyes pulled upwards as his whole face beams, his gaze filled with so much emotion, and Lucien doesn’t know how to kiss a god, much less how to screw one. (It’s not that he lives with the illusion that Olivier d’Athos is a sinless, perfect man – it’s that even his imperfections are fucking noble. Yes, the man is no saint, yet he is worthy of worship nonetheless, and if God has any objections to that, well, Lucien is going to hell anyways.)
“You alright?” Olivier asks, concern sneaking in his voice. Lucien can feel his cheeks burning. He’s terrified and simultaneously in ecstasy, his mouth is suddenly too dry for him to speak; he shakes his head, an embarrassed smile on his lips, and buries his face in Olivier’s neck, both because he seeks to hide how flustered he is and because he’s wanted to bruise this man’s neck in ownership for the better part of his conscious life. When Olivier lets out the softest, tiniest moan, Lucien comes to know what being alive feels like; when nails are dragged down his back, leaving behind trails that burn in the sweetest way, he comes to know heaven. (The fact that this will be the closest he gets to it is oddly unimportant as Olivier writhes beneath him.)
“I can talk to Treville about placing you among us,” Olivier notes absently when they’re about to doze off in each other’s arms, some blissful hours after. Lucien shakes his head, a bemused smirk on his lips. “I doubt you’d manage to convince him I’m not lethal, considering I am.” Olivier scoffs at that, moves to place a kiss on Lucien’s brow. “So you’re still working for the Duke, then?” “The Duke works for me, even if he sees it the other way round. But yes, I don’t see why not.” That’s a lie, because he saw how Olivier looked at him, and he’s not fool enough to say he wouldn’t leave everything behind just to spend every night like this.
He’s also seen how Olivier looks at his men, full of hope and pride and belief that with their help he can achieve the peace in France that he once talked about with fire in his eyes, and he’s not fool enough to say his miserable, cowardly person could ever earn a place among the blue.
“I’ll tell them you sneaked out during the night, before I managed to interrogate you,” Olivier hums, and Lucien shoots him an appreciative look. “Maybe tell them I sneaked out in the afternoon,” he muses, twisting his mouth in a mischievous grin that Olivier rushes to kiss. “Maybe I’ll tell them I never found you, and you can just hide in my room,” he growls, hungrily. Lucien pecks him on the nose. “I have immoral things to do, remember?” he tuts. There isn’t even time for disbelief over the fact that he’s joking about the nature of his affairs with a musketeer—this here is Olivier, not Athos and not comte de la Ferre, it is Olivier running his fingers through Lucien’s unruly hair, and Olivier used to understand riot and desperation at the lack of justice. Olivier used to be saddened by Lucien’s cynicism and not enraged at it; used to whisper to him fairytale-like alternative realities in which poor people had a shot at living, used to reassure him that it’s no monstrosity to hate the king, that no, God will not frown upon him. Now, as he merely giggles at Lucien mentioning his ordeal, it seems he still sees the assassin human enough, deserving of a chance regardless. “I don’t think stealing all my virtues falls among your moral deeds, though,” Olivier quirks an eyebrow when they’ve both stopped laughing, looks at Lucien with those eyes like endless oceans—and the boy in the assassin wants to drown in them so he can forever be preserved in such a precious vessel. “I’ve already surrendered to my vices, Oli,” he whispers, leans to bite his lover’s—his lover!—lower lip. “The longer I stay here, the more I will taint you.”
Olivier takes Lucien’s good hand in his, brings their joined palms to his chest. “You’ve been here longer than He who will judge me, Luc.”
Lucien suppresses the need to throw up, or cry, or push the barrel of his pistol down his throat and pull the trigger because of how overwhelming it is to be loved; he’ll have all the time to sob over this. Come dawn, they’ll be back to normal after all. So he throws himself at Olivier like he’s been throwing himself at danger all his life, knowing it could kill him and distantly hoping it will.
Olivier gently kisses the corner of Lucien’s mouth as he’s putting his boots on, sunlight lazily seeping in the room. Lucien’s eyes flutter shut. “I missed you,” he utters, quietly. He can feel the other smirk against his cheek. “At least I won’t die without knowing if you loved me,” the words come from the musketeer but they have been the only thing in the assassin’s head these past hours. He beams at Olivier, and allows himself one last kiss, his wounded hand’s fingers on the doorknob already. “I’ll be around,” he whispers against his lips, and he turns on his heels, and he leaves.
(The tears don’t start until he’s shut his own home’s door secure behind his back.)