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It had been Constance’s idea to spend Christmas in Gascony, away from Paris and the troubles of the city. D’Artagnan had been convinced, in part because of the enthusiasm of Porthos. Quickly a trip for the two turned into a trip for four, and D’Artagnan was half-convinced the entire unit would have been invited had they not been needed for service. Aramis had decided to stay in the city, his fear for the child of the Queen too strong to go that far. Porthos had dragged along a recalcitrant Athos, knowing their friend would be maudlin and well into his cups were he to stay. Not that he was much better on the road, his mood never lifting much above dour the entire time.
The ride was long, made longer by the snow that started to fall, obscuring the road and making it difficult for the cart to pass. It hampered their progress enough that they were still a day’s ride from D’Artagnan’s home as dusk fell on Christmas Eve.
“We must stop,” D’Artagnan admitted, knowing how quickly the snow could come and how far they still had to go. It hurt to do so, it had been so long since he had seen his home. He knew that his mother expected them, but it would be worse to be stranded, frozen to the bone and unable to ever make it to their destination. “If I remember correctly, there is a tavern not far. It should be shelter enough for the night.”
“Does it have wine?” Porthos asked, glancing at their glum friend. He slapped him on the back as they spoke, riding onward. “Because I could use a drink to warm myself. Eh, Athos?”
“Yes,” he said dryly, barely moving under the weight of the other man’s hand on his back. Athos lifted the flask at his hip, tipping it to show there was nothing within. “Wine would be nice.”
“I am sure there is wine. D’Artagnan said it was a tavern, did he not?” Constance called to them from the bench of the cart they drove, reins tight in her hands. “We must move or we will have to come back for the cart later. I don’t fancy my chances if it snows much more.”
“There will be wine,” he reassured them, trying to stop the burgeoning argument. “I swear, there will be wine.”
He only hoped he was right.
Thankfully there was wine, and plenty of it. The innkeep had looked at them and grudgingly opened the door. It was Christmas Eve, she’d insisted, and no one should be left out in the cold to freeze. She would take them in for Christ’s own sake and give them better beds than a barn, but there would be no dinner bar what they could cook themselves. She had her own family to feed after all.
Constance had pushed her way to the front, insisting it was fine. They would pay for the food they ate and supplement the innkeep’s own table with provisions they had brought from Paris for D’Artagnan’s family. She put them to work too, before giving up and sending them out of the kitchen in frustration.
“Go. Drink your wine and stay out of my way, or there will be nothing to eat but burnt meat and cold oats.”
“Another,” Porthos called, raising his cup and swaying. He was well into his third bottle, and yet still demanded more.
“I think that you have had plenty,” Athos said in response, but poured the cup for his friend anyway. “Then I should not be the one to judge you on that, of all things.”
“No,” Porthos responded with a laugh, and his cup sloshed as he brought it to his lips. “No, I think in this thing you should not judge me at all. All other things… perhaps.”
Athos laughed low and quiet, shaking his head. “Drink and be quiet, friend. Give a man some peace.”
“Peace? Our friends are our peace,” Porthos insisted, knowing that it was his friends who gave him comfort in this world. He looked to the next table to Constance and D’Artagnan and lifted his glass toward them. “To our friends, on this night. At least we are together.”
“Our friends,” they all echoed, each drinking from their own cup. Porthos swayed, and Athos caught him by the shoulder. “And now it is time to get you to your bed. Some help D’Artagnan?”
“I am fine! I can climb those stairs easily as I can walk a line.”
“I think now that you can do neither,” said Athos quietly. He took his friend by a shoulder and waited for D’Artagnan to do the same, the half-filled bottle in his other hand. Porthos started to sing halfway up the steps and encouraged the other men to sing with him. D’Artagnan mumbled along, but Athos sighed and only shouldered open the door.
“Go back down D’Artagnan,” he told the youngest Musketeer once Porthos was in the bed, still singing. He lifted the bottle and gave him a wry smile. “I will stay.”
“You’re sure?” D’Artagnan asked, but his eyes went to the door where he knew Constance was waiting.
“I am. “ Athos insisted, knowing that he had all the company he needed in his drunk friend and the bottle in his hand. “You don’t need my company tonight.”
“I’ve never seen Porthos so drunk. Do you think he’s alright?” Constance asked, worried.
“I have seen him worse than this, but Athos is there if he needs something,” he assured her as he sat again. He had been eager to get downstairs again, but didn’t want Constance to think that he didn’t care. “I can check again-“
“No,” Constance insisted and leaned toward him, touching his hand with hers. She spoke so quickly that she flushed after, but didn’t draw her hand away. “Only, I would like if you stayed a while longer. We could have some more wine, and you could tell me how you used to spend Christmas with your family.”
D’Artagnan looked down at their hands and nodded. “I would like that.”
Athos stared into the empty glass, wondering if he should venture down for another bottle. He had heard laughter from downstairs, and then voices travelling past his door. Only one door had opened and shut, leaving him to think that there were two people here spending their Christmas Eve happily.
“Did somebody punch me?” Porthos’ voice came from the bed, more a groan than clear words.
“Only if you count drinking enough to fell three men your size,” Athos responded dryly. He fetched the jug of water from the bedstand, sniffing it to ensure it was not stagnant before handing it to his friend. “Your would is self-inflicted.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, watching Porthos gulp the water. “Slowly.”
“Bah,” Porthos said as he held out the empty jug and wiped his mouth. “I have done this before.”
“I know you have.” Athos took the jug, and set it down beside the bed, looking back to the other man. He took up most of the space, but as he looked Porthos saw him and shifted aside.
“You stayed,” he said, his eyes still bleary.
“No, I thought I would leave you, in case you choked on vomit.”
“I wasn’t sick,” Porthos insisted, though he had to check around him to be sure.
“You weren’t.” Athos has stayed for more than that, something he was sure they both knew.
“Come here.” Porthos moved again, making room against the headboard.
Athos considered before he moved, looking down at his hands. He could go, he knew, and he could spend the night alone in another bed. He could take another bottle of wine and fall asleep in the main room with his head on the table. But he wanted to stay, for the companionship more than anything else.
“Come,” Porthos repeated to him, looking questioningly at his friend.
He moved, his back to the board and his friend. Porthos put his hand on his shoulder and he stilled before leaning back into the other man’s touch. “You smell of wine.”
“So do you,” Porthos said, his nose against the other man’s ear. It was a pleasant smell to Porthos, one he was as used to as the smell of the road and the leather they wore underneath it.
Athos reached back, twisting to catch Porthos’ mouth with his own in a needy kiss. It was a long night, but it was one that he needn't spend alone.
D’Artagnan woke to sun across his eyes, a heavy weight in his arms. Constance still slept, and he watched her, content with the moment. They were not at his home this morning, but they would be within a day or two, and this seemed better than waking apart.
“It’s Christmas,” he whispered, kissing her cheek and watching her eyelids flutter as she stirred into wakefulness.
“Is it morning already?”
“It is. I have a gift for you, but it’s in the cart, in the stable.” D’Artagnan felt as if he should have planned better, that he should have brought it in to give to her this morning no matter how this had ended.
“You’re my present,” she said, turning to face him, and drawing him into a lingering kiss. “A better gift than anything you could buy.
He was willing to believe that, to hope that this night wasn’t the only one they would have together, but afraid to promise her any more knowing what awaited them when they did go back to Paris.
“And you are mine.”