Chapter Text
“Aramis.”
The Musketeers had wandered back through the doors of the Garrison building after what seemed the longest two days of their lives so far, allowing their exhausted shoulders to finally sag and heads to hang low. Porthos was the first through, heading straight for the communal table, though Serge walked straight past, the retired officer worn out for the remainder of the day.
D’Artagnan chuckled softly and placed a hand on Porthos’ shoulder, suggesting a trip to the pub would not go amiss. The bigger man seemed to agree with idea, standing quickly, pockets conspicuously making little noise. Porthos simply shrugged, explaining he would have plenty of time to earn the amount needed for the hearty meal he wanted.
“Aramis.” Porthos repeated, concern seeping into his tone already as the two officers who had been trapped in the ruins of an old monastery trundled up behind. “You comin’?”
A shake of his head took too much energy, but he gave one nonetheless, with a hand raised. “Go on without me, my friends. I fear I am too weary to offer my usual delightful company.”
The clouds were gathering for a darker night, the grey appearing outside the glass doors, and Aramis felt his bones being dragged further to the ground with his mood, though the plastered on cheeky grin he was used to wearing for his brothers made an appearance.
“You sure?” Porthos planted his feet firmly into the floor, and Aramis was sure if he did not put more effort into his nonchalance he would not be granted with the solitary he so sorely wished for.
“Of course,” he raised a brow, “do not stay on my account. I will only be catching up on some much needed rest.” He emphasised his final words, drawing them out with a twinkle he hoped had appeared in his tired eyes.
It took a moment of assessment that felt like minutes for that understanding grin to dawn on Porthos’ features, the bigger man growling as d’Artagnan smirked.
It was the younger Musketeer who offered a reply, “well, make sure you get some rest.”
“Don’t you worry about me.” He played the part so well by now. “I am sure I will get all the care and attention I need.” He winked, earning another chuckle.
“Alright, Athos?” Porthos turned, smile softening, “do I need to ask?”
Aramis breathed an imperceptible sigh of relief, almost missing the response that came.
“I will have to refuse you this time.”
The frowns came instantly, “are you alright?” d’Artagnan asked quickly, with perhaps too much concern in his voice. The others could hardly blame him though, and Athos did not seem to mind.
He tipped his head, “fine, I assure you. Simply tired.”
Aramis was not blind to the narrowed eyes Porthos shot at his brother, nor was he new to the silent communication they often shared. When the creases of a smile reappeared at the corners of Porthos’ eyes, they were fainter than before, and Aramis knew what silent words had been shared.
“Give ‘im a break, Pup.” Porthos elbowed the boy, who rolled his eyes but no longer argued the permanency of the ridiculous nickname. “’E’s been stuck with ‘Mis for two days! That’s bound to drive anyone to exhaustion.”
Aramis swallowed hard. It was not as if he had not heard the jests before, and truly, it was not so much the jest that had hurt. They are stuck. His hesitation lasted less than a second, but he was sure at least Athos had picked up on it. So he bowed, despite the screams of agony his muscles gave at the flourishing movement, “the pleasure is all mine.”
Porthos’ toothy grin made Aramis’ heart ache for some unfathomable reason. “Right.” He flung an arm around d’Artagnan. “Come on, time to teach you how to play cards the proper way.”
“Try not to get into too much trouble.” Athos tried, and if he had been lying about being tired, it was easy to see why it would be believable to so many.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Porthos shouted back without turning, but the pair could see the smirk on his face as he brough d’Artagnan closer into his grasp.
Aramis’ feet itched, waiting for the right moment to run. He watched Athos out of the corner of his eye, knowing escape was not an option.
Still, he was not known for cowardice, and he swiftly turned on his feet, shoes scratching the floor as he did.
“Who is it this time?” Athos called after him, voice no louder than before, but with much more authority than friendliness. “I do not recall you mentioning anyone recently.”
Aramis stopped, blinking. He cocked his head over his shoulder, though would not look his friend in the eye. “There was hardly time, although if you had wanted to speak about such matters while we were being attacked all you had to do was ask.” He laughed, but his heart wasn’t in it, and he knew Athos heard it, too.
“You are staying here tonight.”
Aramis bowed his head with a great sigh.
“Why?”
“Athos-”
“It is to do with that woman.”
Aramis heard soft steps coming towards him.
“The one who helped us.”
“Athos, please.” He turned, with such a look of desperation on his face that Athos’ features formed into a look of sympathy, though with a confusion as to what it was he was sympathetic for. “I am asking you,” he closed his eyes as his breath caught up to him and he gasped. He settled it, taking a deep breath through his nose, letting it out slowly through the mouth, in a technique he had had to learn long ago under perhaps worse circumstances.
“No,” he tried again, opening eyes with tears now brimming over, no longer attempting to hide anything. “No, I demand of you, to leave it be.”
Athos blinked, taking a step back at the calmness in Aramis’ voice, his features the complete opposite.
“You have your own secrets that you keep to yourself, and I have wondered, we all have, but we have not asked. Because we know, we know you are not ready.” He sniffed. “Allow me that same kindness.” His eyes beseeched the other man, a man he had the same love for as the poor lady who had fallen only some hours ago, love that he was willing himself to push deep down further than it might have been before.
“It is not the same.” Athos whispered.
Aramis shook his head with a chuckle empty of humour. “Don’t.” he clenched his jaw, a fight ready to start in his heart, in his eyes. Delayed anger finally reaching him, aiming itself at anything and anyone within reach.
Athos could not respond to that, the man who always had something to say even with few words was left standing in the losing position, clearly not expecting such.
“I suggest you join our brothers in the pub,” Aramis turned quickly. “And let Porthos know that I am fine.”