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Athos looks surprised when he opens the door. As he might well be, Treville supposes. He doesn’t make a habit of visiting his subordinates’ homes, let alone with a bottle of wine.
Let alone when he knows they’ll be drunk already.
“Is everything alright… sir?” The only sign of Athos’ inebriation is the slow, melancholy tone to his voice. You might not notice it at all, if you did not spend every day with the man.
“I’m sorry,” Treville sighs heavily. “I – wanted some company.”
He watches Athos’ eyes snap to attention, tracks the movement of his arm as he raises it to push his overgrown hair out his face. “Well then,” the younger man says dryly. “Welcome to my castle.”
He steps back to let Treville in, and leaves you must be truly desperate to seek out my company unspoken.
Athos is a far cry now from the young man Treville had dragged out the gutter and out the way of a horse. He holds himself better now, back straight and shoulders steady. His hair may be overgrown and unkempt, but it is at least tended to, and Athos only spends his nights in a drunken stupor, not his days as well. But that stare is still there: challenging and unforgiving, forcing every man – king to guard to beggar to captain – to treat him as an equal.
It was the stare that had attracted Treville, that day in the marketplace, and it was the stare that had been haunting him since this afternoon.
Athos would never forgive me, he had thought as he passed the plans to Richelieu. And then – Athos would never do this.
It had surprised him, the depth and intensity of those thoughts.
Treville does not make a habit of comparing himself with others. He is the youngest of three sons, after all, and he saw enough of that growing up. He has worked hard to get where he is.
He is dragged out of his own thoughts by the clatter of glasses on Athos’ table, and mutters an apology.
Athos is an reflective drunk, a mute drunk. He needs someone tonight who will not cast judgement upon him – and is anyone less equipped to throw stones than Athos, after all? – and someone who will not ask questions that Treville cannot answer.
“Would you like to play cards?” Athos asks, watching him quietly. “Or just drink?”
“Cards?” Treville smiles despite himself. “This is a new habit.”
To his amusement, Athos colours ever so slightly, “I’ve been playing with one of the other recruits.”
“du Vallon?” he reaches across to shuffle the deck and deal. “I hope you’re not playing with him for money.”
Athos shoots him a disdainful look and pours them both a glass of wine.
Mea culpa, Treville doesn’t say, raising the offered glass in a silent toast.
They play cards with the bare minimum of talking, both of them steadily getting drunker and neither of them paying much attention to who’s winning or losing.
Treville doesn't remember who moved first, but he knows it must have been him: Athos is slow when he's well and truly intoxicated, sluggish and disinclined to react. Unless his life is threatened, of course – although maybe not even then.
Athos makes a sound against Treville's lips, and his hand knocks over the empty wine bottle.
He withdraws quick enough to upset his still mostly full glass over the card pack. His heart beats like a firing squad. Treville has already compromised his morals today, now he has compromised his life as well. He's not normally this clumsy, this irrational. He's not survived this long without picking up something that passes for instinct.
Athos looks at the spilled wine – it looks uncomfortably like pooling blood, and, today of all days, Treville does not want to look at it – but makes no move to clean it up.
It is that insensate movement that encourages Treville, in the end.
He closes the gap again, a hand on Athos' shoulder. And this time, Athos winds an arm around his waist, pulling them closer together.
That is confirmation, then. Consent.
Treville backs Athos against the table, the younger man humming in appreciation.
"I suspected as much," Athos says, when Treville's mouth is occupied against his neck. "You took –" he breaks off when Treville stops.
"I didn't – you're not – I didn't give you a commission to bed you!" He's not that drunk, he hopes he'll never be that drunk.
Athos laughs mirthlessly and sweeps his hair out of his face, "I hardly expected so. If that's the case, you have terrible taste."
Treville grunts. He didn't want to think, nor analyse. He came to Athos to –
"I am a widower and a drunkard, captain." Athos is watching him in a lazy manner, still half-backed against the table with his shirt pulled loose, and Treville wants.
He is not a man prone to giving into his desires, particularly not of this kind. Denying himself keeps him sharp, but it also keeps him safe.
But Treville is not a martyr, nor is he a saint, and Athos is right there.
They make it to the bed somehow – Treville thinks legs may have been involved – and he bears Athos down onto it. His mind finally begins to switch off, and that hangman's noose of guilt begins to slip from around his neck.
---
He leaves before Athos wakes in the morning. There is something distinctly seedy about the whole engagement, now that he’s sober and his head is pounding. But he cannot remember – he does not tend to frequent brothels – which one would be the whore.
They don’t speak of it, and the reports filter back from Savoy, and Treville feels sick and disgusted and horrified.
He wanted to be a soldier, a hero. Now he’s responsible for the deaths of twenty of his men.
Aramis comes home and cannot look anyone in the eye.
---
When it all comes out at last, it is a relief. Treville digs his fingers into the bruising on his cheek and hopes it lingers.
There is a knock on his door, the day they bury Marsac.
“I thought you might need this,” Athos says, lounging against the doorframe with one hand resting on his belt and the other clutching the neck of a bottle of wine. “It has been a trying few days.”
“Shouldn’t you be with Aramis?” Treville isn’t certain he wants company, but he steps back to let Athos in anyway. They haven’t spoken since Treville was ambushed at his office, and he hardly knows what to think. Athos is normally reliable, but he still senses the undercurrent of murder that he’d directed towards Savoy; there is still rage simmering in his blood, closer to the surface than Athos normally is.
(And, of course, it makes more sense now – Treville doesn’t know precisely when his men started having suspicions about Savoy, but he’d lay money on it being before Athos’ duel.)
Athos is so miserly with his facial expressions that Treville has grown used to picking up nuances as clues; he does not smile now, but there is a fondness about his mouth, a fondness that only appears when Athos is thinking of his men. “Aramis is so deep in his cups he wouldn’t notice if Richelieu hiked up his skirts and danced the courante. Porthos is with him.”
Treville blinks, “That’s an image I’m… not sure I wanted to think about.”
The younger man chuckles, and places the bottle of wine on the table. It is more expensive than the wine Athos was drinking the last time they drank in one of their apartments, and Treville finds himself appreciating the gesture.
“May I?” Athos motions to one of the seats Treville has scattered around his room.
“I – of course,” he watches as Athos sits down, feeling preoccupated in stockings and a loose shirt. “I am afraid I am not good company tonight.”
“That’s what the wine is for.”
Token protests, really.
Treville takes the seat across from Athos and pours himself a glass of wine. The tension begins to slowly bleed from his shoulders.
He is a soldier. He’s not a politician, and he has no desire to be. It gives him a headache.
They drink in silence, Treville staring into space and Athos watching him with an indecipherable expression.
He waits.
“When you came to my apartments – that was Savoy, wasn’t it?” Athos turns his glass of wine around, frowning at it. “I’ve been trying to figure it out – I always just assumed you’d got the news and were seeking solace. But that wasn’t it, was it?”
“I had given Richelieu the positions, yes.” The guilt he feels every time he thinks about that mission has not abated with time, and perhaps it will increase now that Marsac is dead.
To his surprise – or maybe it should not be a surprise, because Athos is quiet and surly at the best of times – his drinking partner nods, and does not press further.
The bottle of wine is finished by the time Athos starts conversation again; more hesitantly this time. “Did you intend, that night, to end up in my bed?”
He doesn’t knock over his glass, but it is a near miss. Treville thinks, unbidden, of that pooling red wine in Athos’ apartment, and those ruined cards. “It was not my intention,” he says slowly.
“And do you often end up in the beds of your men – or just men?”
“It has been five years,” the words come out unexpectedly harshly, but Treville is not in a state for diplomacy. “And you bring this up now?”
“I am merely testing the waters,” Athos says, his keen gaze focused on Treville’s face. “To see how a proposition would be received.”
He does knock over his glass this time, but it’s mostly empty. Athos’ eyes flicker to it, but he makes no movement. This is Treville’s apartment, however, and he has no desire to have a wine-stained table. He gets linens to mop it up.
“I do not want company, tonight,” he says, with his back to Athos to shield himself. “I do not want to talk.”
Athos makes a noise of agreement in his throat, and when Treville turns to look he inclines his head.
“I am still your superior.”
“With all due respect, sir,” and Treville snorts at this, because Athos has never been a man given to much deference. “You were my superior last time as well.”
Last time.
Last time.
Athos against the table, his shirt tugged loose at the neck. Treville’s hands gripping into Athos’ hair and pulling. Athos biting his lip and arching towards him as he spilled, his face against Treville’s neck at the comedown.
Treville’s skin itches, burns. He wants.
It’s not the release, he doesn’t care about gratification. He just wants – skin. Touching. Something that will ease him out of his own head, where he still sees Marsac’s dead eyes, Aramis’ cracking voice, the abrasive smirk of Savoy.
This time he knows who makes the moves, acutely aware of each step, walking as a condemned man to his end, or his freedom.
They kiss slower this time, and Athos doesn’t grab at him. His touch is like a balm, shutting down Treville’s mind and taking him out of his bleak thoughts.
Athos breaks away – Treville caught by the heave of his chest, proof that Athos is as interested in this as he is – and jerks his head towards the bed. The corners of his lips are upturned the slightest amount, and Treville finds himself fascinated by what passes for a beaming grin from his second. They make short work of the distance.
---
Athos is still there in the morning when Treville wakes, curled on his side and turned towards him. One leg is slipping off the bed, the other bent at the knee and pressing gently against Treville’s shin. He is snoring softly.
Treville feels no urgency nor desire to move. He leans forward and presses a kiss to the corner of Athos’ slack mouth, the intimacy making him feel both uneasy and daring.
“G’back to s’eep,” Athos mutters, without opening his eyes. He inches closer to Treville and throws an arm around his waist. It’s like having an extra blanket.
Treville smiles to himself.
This time, when he closes his eyes, he doesn’t see Marsac.