Chapter Text
Let me tell you a thing or two about Aramis.
Everybody loved him, because he made everyone feel loved.
The heart and soul of whichever group of people he interacted with, the centre of attention, always quick with a joke, a look, a touch that made everyone feel seen.
Women fell for him left and right, for his looks, his elegance, the warm timbre of his voice; it seemed like he didn't even have to try.
He was the handsome soldier, his coat billowing as he fought with all the finesse of an elite swordsman, dark brown eyes keen and sharp when he raised a musket to his shoulder, drawing attention to his skilled hands, always hitting the mark.
He was the trustworthy man of faith, with all the softness and patience of the ideal priest, but not plump and slow, not preachy, just supportive. The one who always found the right words for comfort, for strength, and it always seemed genuine. Less like a disappointed preacher who reminded people of their sins and shortcomings, of fire and brimstone, or an old and weary scholar who bored everyone with an abundance of run-on sentences which made it hard to follow sermons even for those who tried.
No, Aramis was one of them, one of the common people, tempted and flawed– and spreading faith, hope and love with the conviction of Saint Paul the apostle nonetheless.
He was a poet, his language fluid as water, sweet as honey. Choosing and weighing his words, stringing them together like pearls on a necklace to be gifted to one of his many admirers, hand-crafted, personal.
He made everyone feel loved. He made people believe in a beautiful world, a golden world of peace and pleasure, all sorrows sinking into the sea with the setting sun, of whispered confessions in the moonlight that followed.
He was the seducer, clad in the softest leather that hugged his lean muscled form, intense eyes framed by artfully windswept curls, a hero fresh from the fight– a grown man with a boyish charm, movements lithe as a tiger's: confident and predatory or subdued, demure, like he wasn't aware of it, like only you, only you did see it, and he was yours for the taking, yours alone.
One night with Aramis would leave you yearning for more forever, and if you played your cards right, if you did not fence him in, if you were very lucky, you would get it.
Your secrets were safe with him, because he cared about you, he cared like he did for his brothers, his patients, the medic with his swift, self-assured movements, removing musket balls, stitching cuts, washing wounds– healing hands, the same ones that killed in the king's service, healing, holding, mending, putting back together what was broken.
Everybody loved him. Loved the laugh lines on his face, the evidence of a loud, happy life, loved the pensiveness in his quieter moments, hinting at a greater depth of character, a mystery waiting to be solved, a remark here and there, a quirk of the lips, a sigh– the promise of secrets waiting to be unraveled.
Everything, anything a person could love, they could find in Aramis.
One look and he seemed to know you, read your innermost wishes and desires from your eyes before you had to voice them. You'd feel known without feeling judged, relieved, not intimidated, and if he teased you it was always something you could laugh about, just a challenge, a friendly jest, never a step too far.
He would adapt to you, be whatever you needed him to be, eager to please yet always himself, or a version of it. Quiet with the quiet ones, talkative with the extroverts, never tiring, never failing to fit himself in the mold of the person your life was lacking, your wants, your needs.
Everybody loved him, because how could they not? He was easy to love, easy to forgive when he made you jealous, because you couldn't fault the whole world for falling at his feet when you did, too. Helpless. Devoted.
You'd think that a person this perfect, this confident, would get vain and arrogant, his ego inflated to the size of the Louvre, but the most infuriating thing was that it always remained endearing, never tipped over into the unbearable machismo which quickly becomes a turn-off. For all his outwardly projected personality, Aramis never ceased to be self-aware, conscious of how he was perceived, and thus he never settled. Yesterday's Aramis was one man, tomorrow's Aramis might be another, but his laughter, his love, his ability to make you feel good never changed.
Everyone felt like they knew him. Everybody knew that Aramis loved to be loved.
Nobody knew how much he needed it.
Nobody knew that at the root of all this, buried deep underneath his adapting, his eagerness to please, was the instinct to survive.