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Porthos’ ears are ringing as he stumbles out the door. The loud bass gets muffled to a low beating sound as it swings closed behind him.
He inhales the cold, clear air, desperate to get the smell of smoke out of his nose and the dizziness out of his head. That is why he hates bars. He has to lean against the wall as the weird feeling in his head slowly lessens, though never goes away. He drank too much and will definitely pay for it tomorrow.
Aramis comes out a few minutes after him, grinning wildly as he nearly stumbles over his own feet.
“That. Was. Awesome!” There’s lipstick smeared over his lips, and his hair looks like a bird’s nest. Porthos rolls his eyes, but he still smiles. Aramis has needed a good night out, and he’s happy he managed to give him one.
“So,” Aramis says and claps his bare hands together. He must have forgotten his gloves inside. “Shall we get a taxi?”
Porthos nods, not trusting words to be the only thing to leave his mouth, as a new wave of dizziness runs through him. Aramis notices and chuckles. “Let’s buy some drinks first.” Porthos can feel himself go green and has to bow down with his hands on his knees, or he would have thrown up. Aramis just laughs, that bastard.
Aramis drags him through the streets. The dark winter night is not so dark when lit up by the lights of London. People more drunk than them try to find their way to a club or maybe home. Porthos, despite his wobbling legs and losing sense of direction, has a marvelous time chatting with whoever he bumps into.
Aramis leads the way to the main street, where they find a taxi, only stopping on the way to buy some cans of soda and a dozen bags of crisps for the next day. Or later that day, as it actually is.
The taxi driver looks annoyed when Aramis loads a drunken Porthos into the cab, but they pay him another twenty, and he dutifully turns his frown upside down.
The ride takes twenty-five minutes – Porthos promises himself never to let Aramis choose the location of a bar ever again. The Happy Pig was fun but not worth the travel – and they still have to walk a good way since their street is blocked by some construction work. The only bright side is that Porthos gets to sober up a little on the way. He drinks two of the cans of soda and feels less sick than before.
They pay the driver and begin their walk home. Aramis finally notices his missing gloves and complains until Porthos lends him his. They drink a can each on the way and then compete on who can throw the empty ones the highest into the air. And then who can avoid them as they fall.
They are only ten meters feet from their flat when Aramis suddenly stops. Porthos doesn’t notice, thoughts occupied with what film he should see when he wakes with a terrible hangover. He’s right before the door before he finally sees the dead man slumped against it.
Or just a very drunk man. Not dead. He’s still breathing.
For a moment, Porthos just stares at the man. He’s young, about their age, though it’s hard to tell with a mop of dark hair and bushy beard covering most of his face. He could be homeless, but he’s wearing some fine clothes and shoes that shine more than the puddles on the sidewalk.
“Is he dead?” Aramis asks and peeks over his shoulder. Porthos shakes his head.
“Drunk, I think.”
“What do we do? Call someone?”
“Who? The police?” Porthos asks and glances at Aramis, who’s looking at the man, frowning slightly.
“Might be a bit dramatic,” he says. “It’s not like he’s doing anything.”
“That’s the problem,” Porthos says. They’re in the middle of December, and it’s already cold as hell. The guy will freeze to death, probably would have if they hadn’t found him. The question now is just: what do they do with him?
“You think he lives here and just forgot his keys?” Aramis suggests.
Porthos doesn’t think so. Their part of London isn’t exactly the richest, and the bloke before him just screams money. Plus, they are on good terms with all their neighbors, and Porthos has never seen the man before in his life. He must have been out drinking and decided to take a rest.
But how he got wrangled down their street and passed out before their door, when there are no pubs or bars anywhere near them, is the real mystery.
Aramis crouches beside the man and begins to dig through his pockets.
“Aramis!” Porthos stares horrified as Aramis finds a leather wallet and flips through it. Aramis ignores him until he finds what he is searching for. He holds up the wallet for Porthos to see.
Porthos leans closer and sees the driver’s license and the name written on it.
“Our guest is one Athos de la Fère,” Aramis says as Porthos takes the wallet from him. The picture on the license is of the young man – two years their senior, it tells him – with a strong look in his eyes and a mouth set in a tight line. He’s looking out of the picture like he’s daring whoever took it to ask him to say cheese.
He’s quite handsome, Porthos thinks. He flips through the wallet until he finds an address.
And very rich indeed.
He shows it to Aramis, who straightens up after stuffing the wallet back into a pocket. “That’s the other end of London,” he says. “Should… should we call a taxi?”
“It can’t get up here. We’ll have to carry him somewhere else,” Porthos says and suddenly feels too sober. Not the way he wanted the night to end.
“You’re right…” mumbles Aramis and looks down at Athos de la Fère. “But we can’t leave him here.” Aramis is frowning slightly like he’s trying to do a crossword puzzle and not handling a passed-out drunk sitting before the door to their flat.
When he smiles and slowly turns his head towards him, Porthos groans, knowing an insane idea has occurred.
“We take him upstairs and let him sleep it out, and in the morning, we help him get home. Yes, sounds like a plan.”
“Are you insane?” Porthos asks. “He could be a maniac killer for all we know.”
“Rich people rarely kill poor people like us,” Aramis says and tries to haul the man to his feet, and failing miserably. “They only kill each other. Inheritance and all that, you know?”
Porthos has known Aramis long enough to see when a battle is lost long before it’s even started. So, he sighs, tells Aramis to remember he was against the whole thing from the beginning, and grabs the man by the back of his jacket. He swings the deadweight over his shoulder, so poor de la Fère hangs like a limp sack of potatoes.
“Tell me if he wakes. Don’t want vomit down my back,” he growls at Aramis, who takes the bags with crisps and soda. He laughs and holds the door for Porthos, who tries not to smack de la Fère’s head against the doorframe.
Three flights of stairs later and Porthos finally unloads the man onto the sofa. He doesn’t wake up.
Aramis takes off his shoes and jacket and covers him with one of their blankets, the one with the hole in it.
Porthos feels dead on his feet as he watches Aramis place a bucket next to the couch, along with a glass of water on the table.
“There!” exclaims Aramis, delighted like he’s just done the good deed of the year. “That ought to do it.”
De la Fère sleeps on like nothing has happened.
Porthos just shakes his head and bids Aramis goodnight. He doesn’t turn on the light in his bedroom; he just shrugs out of his jacket and trousers and falls headfirst into his bed. He’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.
~*~
When he wakes around noon with a head pounding slightly and finally emerges from his bedroom, it’s to the sight of Aramis cooking in the kitchen and singing along to Last Christmas, which is booming out of the radio. He’s only wearing boxers and an apron and yells as hot grease from the pan hits him on the chest.
Shaking his head and regretting doing so immediately, Porthos goes to the bathroom. He has forgotten all about their guest but is kindly reminded when he finds the man bowed over the toilet bowl, retching loudly. He stares, hand still on the doorknob as the man spits into the toilet and falls backward onto the floor.
He lies on his back and groans to the ceiling. Then he notices Porthos and leans his head back to look up at him.
“Hi,” is all Porthos can say.
“Hi.”
“Mind if I use the toilet?”
The man – Porthos is struggling with the name – rolls onto his stomach with flapping limbs and has to take a break before he slowly gets up, standing a bit unsteady. It’s a very pitiful sight, and Porthos would normally have laughed had it not been done with a strange grace and dignity on the man’s part.
When he’s finally standing, he’s pale beneath the dark hair and gives Porthos a nod before he brushes past him.
Too tired to think it all through, Porthos just locks the door after him.
When he comes out again, their guest is sitting at the dinner table, arms folded over his head and with a cup of coffee sitting before him. Aramis is singing to a new Christmas song coming from the radio and places a full plate in front of Porthos the second he sits down.
Porthos digs in, all the while watching their guest lift his head once in a while to sip from his coffee and then disappear beneath his arms again.
Aramis finally turns down the music and joins them at the table. He butters a piece of toast and places it before their guest, and orders him to eat. “It will make you feel better.”
He gets a muffled answer, but their guest still lifts his head and takes the bread. He eats it slowly.
Porthos can’t help but look at him. Clearly hungover and miserable, and despite not knowing whose dinner table he’s sitting at, he appears as relaxed as if he’s with old friends.
He notices Porthos staring and meets his eyes, holding the gaze for a few seconds before he reaches out a hand.
“Athos,” he says, voice a little hoarse. Porthos takes his hand. It’s warm against his.
“Porthos.”
He lets go of the hand and turns back to his plate. Athos munches on his bread, and Aramis hums Santa Baby as he eats his eggs.