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It had snowed that afternoon, and the crisp frost crunched beneath the boots of the Musketeers as they walked by lamplight to The Church of Saint-Sulpice. Aramis preferred the Midnight Mass at Saint-Étienne-du-Mont , but Athos reminded him that it was a miracle they were letting him out for any midnight Mass at all, given the chill in the air and the two weeks he had just spent abed coughing out his lungs from pneumonia, so the church closest to the Musketeer garrison would just have to suffice for this Christmas.
Even though the walk to Saint-Sulpice was scarcely all of five minutes, they had bundled Aramis up against the cold in every spare item of winter clothing they had between them. Still, their pace was slower than it should have been owing to Aramis’s lethargic gait, and even in the low light from the streetlamps Athos could see his cheeks beginning to be bitten red from the wind. He resisted the matronly urge to pull the scarf up over the exposed skin of Aramis’s face and was immensely gratified when D’Artagnan did it for him, and thus bore the subsequent grumbling.
When they reached the church, they paused, propping Aramis up against the giant wooden doors to the nave to allow him to catch his breath while the air was still fresh and free of incense. The doors and the nave were lit by large torches, which cast their warm glow all amongst the churchgoers who filed in beside them, the sounds of their chattering evening out into a hymn punctuated by the ringing of the bells overhead. Aramis pulled down the scarf and smiled, and even so all Athos could see was the way the pallor of his face still too closely mirrored the fresh snowfall, all he could think of was the way his fever had broken just two days prior.
He took his friend by the shoulder. “If you feel too unwell, Aramis, you must promise to tell us and we will escort you back early, alright?”
“Yes, Aramis, there’s no shame in leaving early,” D’Artagnan said, stamping the snow from his boots. “We’d rather that than have to carry you back in a cart.”
“Hell, I’ll stage a diversion if you want me to,” Porthos said with a shrug. “Pretend to faint or something. I don’t mind.”
Aramis rolled his eyes, and Athos had to physically stop himself from bracing him with a hand; he looked so ready to fall. “Cluck, cluck, cluck, that’s all I hear.” At the blank and marginally worried looks he received from his friends, Aramis sighed exasperatedly. “Mother hens, the lot of you!” He waved a gloved hand. “Yes, I promise, I promise, let’s just get inside and sit down.”
Neither Athos nor his fellows mentioned the brief stumble that accompanied Aramis’s directive; they merely gathered him and guided him in through the doors, Athos and Porthos each at a side and D’Artagnan at his back, their arms sure and steady. Athos, also, kept silent about the sheer amount of weight Aramis was leaning into him and allowing him to support, but a quick glance over the man’s head at Porthos told him Porthos had noticed this as well.
They let Aramis lead them into a pew and they all slid in after him, Athos helping Aramis divest himself of his heavy cloak when his own fingers were too shaky for the task themselves.
“I mean it,” Athos told him after he had taken the cloak and laid it behind him in the pew.
“The hardest part is over,” Aramis said, and Athos tried his best not to focus on how quickly his breaths came. “Now I just get to sit here.”
Soon after, the Mass began, and as the priest droned on in saccharine Latin, Athos was reminded of why he had weaseled his way out of accompanying Aramis to every Mass he possibly could. The ceremony held nothing for him, had held nothing for him for a very long time, but tonight, he would be nowhere but here. He thought back to the way he had held Aramis’s fevered body in his arms and pounded his palm in the square of his back, just the way the physician had shown him, to loosen the congestion in his lungs, because he was the only one who could make himself keep doing it even when Aramis sobbed through the pain like a little boy.
Athos looked down the pew at his brothers and thought of the night Aramis’s fever had been highest, his breathing at its worst, and how they had all gathered at his bedside, bathed his forehead, and held out bowls for him as he coughed and gagged, fearing the worst as they watched him shiver and shake beneath their touch. Then Athos thought of the next day, when Aramis had startled them all out of their exhausted doze with a shriek and a demand to know if he had missed Christmas Mass. Athos had run to him, assured him that he had two days yet until Christmas, and found the man’s skin blessedly cool and slick with sweat.
Just as they had been then, they were all where they needed to be now, though Athos could say the Mass itself meant little more to Porthos and D’Artagnan than it did to him. Still, he could not deny there was a bit of comfort in the familiarity, not in the rite itself but in the feeling of Aramis beside him, in the snatches of whispered Latin Athos could occasionally hear Aramis say on an exhale.
Athos blinked himself from his trance to realize that he had not heard any such murmurs in a while. He looked beside him to find Aramis fast asleep, his chin tucked against his chest, breaths coming in deep, even puffs. He elbowed Porthos and nodded in the sleeping man’s direction.
Porthos leaned forward, the pew creaking beneath his shifting weight. “Stubborn bastard,” he mumbled, shaking his head, fondness and worry warring for equal precedence in his voice. “I knew it was too soon for him to be out of bed.”
D’Artagnan leaned forward, too, chewing his lip as he surveyed the situation. “Should we wake him?”
Athos regarded Aramis’s sleeping form another moment, noting again the shadows beneath his eyes. Were it up to him, Athos would let the man sleep there for the duration of the Mass, but he knew Aramis would not abide that. “I’ll give him until the Consecration.”
With that, the three Musketeers sat uneasily back in their pews, casting frequent glances at their friend, who remained unconscious to the ceremony occurring around him. As the priest read the Gospel and Aramis still showed no signs of waking on his own, Athos felt a small pit of apprehension grow in his chest, wondering what his friend’s reaction to having fallen asleep (despite having so desperately needed the rest) at Mass would be.
The priest kissed his book. “Per evangélica dicta, deleántur nostra delícta,” and moved to the creed.
Just as Athos was debating how best to wake Aramis subtly– should he rub the pad of his thumb across his knuckles or would that be too obvious?-- Aramis stirred with a deep, expansive inhale, blinking as he reoriented himself to his surroundings. Athos wondered briefly if the man was at all surprised not to wake to the four walls of his room again, but if he was, Aramis did not show it.
The deep breath set off a couple coughs, which Aramis muffled against his hand. They were still far raspier than Athos cared for, but given that Athos had heard what they had sounded like before, Athos chased away his worry, which was aided by the fact that Aramis was actually able to stop coughing now rather than just choke himself into exhaustion.
When he had stopped coughing, Aramis caught a soft sneeze in his steepled hands. When he did not lower them, Athos retrieved his own handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it out to Aramis, nudging his friend’s shoulder with his own to get his attention.
Aramis nodded his thanks and took the cloth. Athos looked back ahead to give him privacy, and he did not turn back even when he heard Aramis finish, even when, in his periphery, he saw Aramis turn his gaze away from the Mass and on him, on Porthos, on D’Artagnan, and watch them like they three were the holiest things in the building.
Even from the corner of his eye, and in the twilight of the candles, Athos could see a faint flush on Aramis’s cheeks that foretold a return of his fever in the coming day. Perhaps it was too soon for him to be out of bed, Athos thought, and the worry snaked down his spine again. He turned to Aramis, half-wondering a way to voice this concern, only to find the man beaming at him.
“ I’m alright,” he mouthed. “ Stop worrying.”
Athos exhaled, a puff of air through his nose, and relaxed back against the pew.
Aramis leaned forward. “ You too, Porthos.”
Athos looked to his side and saw Porthos glance away, caught out. D’Artagnan, too, sat back in his pew and became enraptured with the way his fingers intertwined when his hands folded together.
The priest offered first the bread, then the wine for blessing, but Athos instead trained his eyes on Aramis, watched as his lips moved in perfect cadence as he murmured the benedictions alongside the celebrant. The hazy cloud of incense, swimming before the darkened stained glass windows, gave the moment the air of a dream. And perhaps it was that reason that Athos found himself sending up a prayer of thanks, a prayer as formed and directed as the incense cloud, but a prayer nonetheless, for the presence of his brothers at his side.