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Porthos lay prone on his bed at the Musketeer’s garrison, awash in a private haze of malaise and misery. He screwed his eyes shut, both to guard against the waves of dizziness that ebbed and flowed across him as well as to try to steal back some of the sleep he had been losing these past few nights. Perhaps that had been a contributing factor to his fainting like a lady of the court not even an hour into his first formal day of training for the regiment. He was no stranger to sleepless nights or rough fights, that much was certain, but he had been uniquely high strung of late. A Musketeer’s commission was the highest honor he’d ever been afforded, the opportunity of a lifetime, and the need to prove himself made Porthos ready to jump out of his skin. Perhaps the anxiety of it all was too much for him to handle. Perhaps being a Musketeer was too much for him to handle. Surely he’d never been this weak before.
Porthos’s dark and half-conscious musings were interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by a too-jovial voice. “I hope you’re alive in there!”
Porthos grunted loudly. The voice sounded familiar, but not enough to connect to a personage, and in his state Porthos did not feel like expending the energy to attempt to do so. He pressed his face further into his pillow.
“Well that’s a promising sign!” the voice called back through the door, and Porthos cursed himself for not being silent. He waited for a moment, but there was no sound of retreat behind the door.
“Who is it?” he said finally, flipping onto his back with a groan.
“Aramis.” There was a pause as the man, obviously expecting a note of recognition from Porthos, received none. “The ridiculously attractive, smart, and charming one.”
Even as reluctant to give in to joy as Porthos’s mood made him, he could not suppress a grin at the comment. He knew exactly which Musketeer this Aramis was (the adjectives provided—particularly the third one—being generally accurate), and in truth, Aramis was the only person in the regiment Porthos would not mind seeing at the present moment.
“May I come in?” he asked, and Porthos granted him permission.
The Musketeer entered, in full uniform down to his hat, but carrying a small tray of provisions as though he were a serving girl. He placed the tray on the rickety bedside table and removed his hat, giving a bow as though he had served a lord and not just a recruit who fainted at the sight of hard work. Aramis grinned and hung his hat on the bedpost.
Irritatingly, Porthos could feel his sour mood beginning to evaporate. Trying to preserve some of it (he deserved a bit of wallowing sometimes, damn it), he jerked a sluggish finger toward the tray Aramis had brought. “Parting gift from the captain?”
“Consider it a care package,” Aramis corrected, “from yours truly.”
At this, Porthos couldn’t help but prop himself up on his elbows, despite the vague dizziness the motion incurred. He narrowed his eyes at Aramis, trying to discern some ulterior motive, some reason why a seasoned Musketeer would give a fainting recruit a care package. But Aramis merely gazed back at him, and Porthos was certain that had the man a tail, it would be wagging.
“I cannot, in good conscience, allow a man to be ill all alone without at least trying to offer some aid. And my friend, you looked more than a little ill earlier. Still do. Try some of the tea, it will help steady you.” Aramis nodded at the items on the tray. “Once that is done, some meat and cheese from the midday meal, since I take it you have not eaten all day?”
Porthos groaned, the idea of food unusually off putting at the present moment. Aramis merely nodded, as though the sound had proved some grand hypothesis. “Mhmm,” he hummed. “I would have come earlier but for the fact that those of us who can keep our feet still must undergo a day’s duty.”
Aramis laughed cheerily as Porthos glowered at him, the ringing sound setting a seed of warmth in Porthos’s chest. He chose to credit the sensation to the tea, which was pleasant in both taste and temperature and, to Porthos’s surprise, did do a good deal toward perking him up.
“I still can’t believe I fainted,” Porthos grumbled, draining the last of the tea. “In front of everyone. In front of Treville.”
“He understands,” Aramis said seriously, resting a hand on Porthos’s shoulder. “Some men just have weak constitutions.”
Aramis laughed again when Porthos made an affronted noise. He then fixed his eyes, kind but with no trace of jest, upon his fellow. “Really, Porthos. You’re not the first Musketeer to have fainted on duty, nor will you be the last. Just rest now so you do not repeat it tomorrow. Can’t be good for your head.”
And Porthos truly must have hit his head harder than he remembered on his way down, for he said, with all the dreaminess of a love struck boy, “You remembered my name.”
Porthos flopped his head back on the pillow and bit his tongue against a groan, but Aramis merely smiled. “Fainting in the practice yards does more to advance a man’s name than does being anointed bishop, so I’m told.”
Perhaps taking Porthos’s return to the horizontal as an indication of his weariness, Aramis collected his hat and made to leave, stopping in the doorway to regard Porthos once more. “As it happens, my room is three doors down and across the hall, if you are in need of any more sage proverbs.”
Porthos grunted a profane farewell, but was mollified that he had not misjudged his footing with the Musketeer when he heard the door close and Aramis’s soft chuckles recede down the hallway. Alone again, he sat up and began to pick at the supper Aramis had left him, realizing that there were now two men in the garrison whose favor Porthos sought above all else.
*****
The next morning, Porthos was already halfway through his breakfast when the senior Musketeers joined the recruits after receiving their daily briefings from Treville. Aramis, clearly a popular man if the veritable coterie which seemed to surround him at all times was any indication, plopped down across the table from Porthos and ushered his friends to fill in. As expected, one of them made a remark about Porthos’s spectacle the day previous, which got a rise of laughter from the company.
The hair on Porthos’s neck bristled, but Aramis stepped in before Porthos could do anything he would further regret, turning the conversation with diplomatic ease to the merits of the captain’s new cloak. From that day onward, Porthos’s training passed mercifully uneventfully.
In fact, as the week passed, Porthos found himself enveloped into what he could only describe as a comfortable routine. In the mornings, he awaited the raucous laughter of Aramis and his friends as they joined in the meal, and in the evenings he went to the tavern with nearly the whole of the regiment. He proved himself in training, earning, if not the friendship of his fellow recruits, then certainly their respect. And at card games, he demanded nothing short of awe.
On the tenth day of his training, Porthos sat at the breakfast table, rolling the tightness from his shoulders as the rest of the Musketeers poured in. He sought amongst the usual group the face of Aramis, but felt his own countenance falter when the amicable man upon whose presence Porthos had almost come to rely failed to take a place upon the bench.
Upon remarking on Aramis’s absence, Porthos was informed by a senior Musketeer that Aramis had dragged himself, looking and sounding half-dead, to the parade ground that morning only to be dismissed from duty by Treville on account of illness before muster had even begun. The conversation then moved on, but Porthos allowed it to wash over him as he picked at his bread. The news worried him, and he was disquieted by precisely how much he had come to care for the Musketeer called Aramis in the short time he had been in Treville’s garrison.
Though Porthos performed as well as ever in his trainings, his mind was otherwise occupied. He had no choice now but to check up on the ailing man and repay Aramis’s favor, and as soon as the recruits were dismissed for the day, Porthos went to the kitchens. He asked Serge, the cook, for tea and bread on a platter to bring to Aramis, and the old cook’s face softened upon hearing the intended recipient.
“You make sure he is resting, alright?” Serge said seriously, heaping dollops of honey into the teacup. “And take some mint leaves, too, in case his stomach is bothering him.”
Generously arranged platter in hand, Porthos stopped at the door, three down and across the hall from his own. What if Aramis was asleep, Porthos thought suddenly, and cursed himself for not considering such a thing earlier. He stood, ear to the wood for a few moments, until he heard a pair of sneezes from the other side. Reasoning that men didn’t sneeze, much less sneeze twice and with such force, while asleep, Porthos knocked on the door.
“Aramis?” he called. “It’s Porthos, the uh…” He trailed off. He had thought it would be humorous to call back to the way Aramis had addressed him that day now that the roles were reversed, but Porthos found he could not think of a way to describe himself other than… “The fainting one. Can I come in?”
“Porthos.” He heard Aramis sigh. His breath snagged on a ragged exhale, which left him coughing hoarsely. “Is there something you need? I’m afraid I’m not the best company at the moment.”
Porthos winced at the heavy congestion in the man’s voice, suddenly feeling self-conscious at even being there. “I can go but I—“ He cleared his throat, willing away his embarrassment. If Aramis told him to go, he would go, but not before he had at least offered his help. “I brought you some things. Might help you feel better.”
For an agonizingly long while it was silent, and Porthos feared a dismissal. But then Aramis’s breath hitched and he sneezed loudly. He sniffled, then said softly, “If you don’t mind the state of me, go ahead.”
Porthos entered into a room that was much more Spartan in appearance than he had expected of a man so vivacious as Aramis. The most extravagant thing was a gold etching of the Madonna and Child, that rested near the windowsill. The rest of it looked much as plain as Porthos’s.
The room’s resident, in short, looked awful, with dark circles beneath his eyes and raw, red skin around his nose. His lips were parted to allow him to breathe, and he sniffled softly, almost impulsively on every inhale. His hair, usually hidden neatly beneath his hat, was tussled slightly from sleep. Porthos knew what pride Aramis took in his appearance, had noticed the way he preened himself in view of any reflective surface, so Porthos could only guess what it cost Aramis to be seen like this. The man in question peered at Porthos apologetically above his handkerchief as he buried his nose in it, blowing softly. He sniffled and wiped at it upon finishing, sounding just as stopped-up as he had before.
It felt oddly too intimate to watch Aramis stare off into space and rub at his nose with his handkerchief, so Porthos busied himself with setting his tray on the bedside table much as Aramis had done in his room. Out of the corner of his eye, though, Porthos glimpsed at least two more handkerchiefs, each embroidered in a way befitting of such a man as Aramis, stuffed beneath the pillow.
Aramis sneezed twice more, and Porthos frowned in sympathy. “I can see why Treville sent you back to your rooms,” Porthos said. “You sound miserable.”
“Ah,” Aramis croaked, wincing, “you heard about that?” He rubbed at his throat with his palm.
“You weren’t at breakfast, so I asked around.”
Aramis’s eyes, though tired and hazy, fixed upon Porthos with such a genuine happiness that you would have been forgiven for thinking Porthos had just delivered him the riches of the Crown . “You noticed my absence.”
Porthos looked down at his feet, suddenly sheepish in the face of Aramis’s enthusiasm. “Of course I did.”
“How foolish of me, of course you did,” Aramis replied, a teasing quality seeping into his voice and stealing away the genuine openness that had been there. “I am incredibly notable. Tell me, Porthos, however did the garrison manage without me?”
At Aramis’s prodding, Porthos launched into a recapitulation of the days events. He spared no detail, especially where his training was concerned, and was gratified when Aramis beamed or laughed or shook his head as was appropriate. It was only when Porthos paused to let Aramis cough up what sounded like half a lung that he realized that this was what Aramis did best: turn the conversation away from himself.
Porthos opened his mouth, intent to redirect the conversation back to the matter at hand that was Aramis’s grippe, but the Musketeer spoke first.
“It’s a pity you have to see me like this, Porthos,” he rasped a bit breathlessly, the coughing fit having shredded his throat, “for I am not often ill. But when I do fall ill, I am…” He trailed off, his features going slack. “I am quite– ” Three powerful sneezes cut him off. Aramis clamped the handkerchief to his face, desperate to contain the veritable explosion.
“I can see that.” It was Porthos’s turn to wince as Aramis cleaned himself up amidst a series of coughs and grumbles. “Well, I guess even the strongest constitutions fail sometimes.”
The glower Aramis sent Porthos’s way suggested he remembered exactly the role-reversed conversation to which Porthos referred. “Ha. That’s right, mock a man when he is down, Porthos. Very honorable of you.”
Porthos chuckled, the sound fading quickly when Aramis began to cough again. He hovered awkwardly for the duration of the fit, unsure of what to do or whether Aramis would even appreciate an arm on his back in an attempt to soothe. When at last the coughs subsided, Aramis slumped against the wall with a soft, pitiful moan and clamped his hand over his eyes.
It was as though his strings were cut, and Porthos was beginning to suspect that as long as he was present, Aramis would never truly let himself relax. It rubbed a small part of him wrongly, this idea that any part of Aramis he saw was in some way performance, but Porthos shook the thought away. There were more concrete, immediate things to be dealt with now.
“Should I go?” He risked a brief brush against Aramis’s shoulder, just to get his attention, he reasoned.
Aramis looked up, eyes red and watery, cheeks flushed. “It’s probably for the best that you do, lest I make you ill as well. The last thing you need is to miss more training.” He paused and took hold of Porthos’s wrist. “Not that I haven’t enjoyed your company.”
Porthos smiled at the reassurance. “I’ll go, let you sleep.” He extricated his wrist and looked down. “I can come back later to check on you.”
“You don’t have to worry.”
Porthos shrugged, something in Aramis’s voice making him certain that he would come back. “It’s not like I have anything better to do.”
“I’m certain you do.” Aramis jumped a bit, as though sieged by an idea, and wagged a finger. “Your training, for starters.”
“Bah. What’s one more missed exercise?”
“Porthos!”