Chapter Text
“Back to the real world,” d’Artagnan sighed, as the outskirts of Paris rose up in the distance. He glanced over to gauge Aramis’ reaction. There was a wistfulness to his friend’s expression-- only natural, d’Artagnan supposed, for a man who’d just farewelled his family-- but there was a smile there too. They’d all needed the past few weeks, badly.
Visting the d’Herblay distillery, d’Artagnan thought, was certain to be one of his favorite memories from this point on. For one thing, Aramis’ family was big. It was big and loud and loving, and his brother and sisters had spent the entire first night passing their René from one embrace to the next, kissing him, praying over him, stuffing him full of food and brandy. It warmed d’Artagnan deeply. It might also have saddened him, had they not shown nearly the same affection to Athos, Porthos, and-- within less than a day of their arrival-- d’Artagnan himself. His own family had been tiny. For most of the years he could remember it had been only him and his father, and even now that he’d forged a brotherhood in the musketeers, it was still only a group of four. It was more than enough, of course. But there was something impossibly heartening about the massive jumble that composed the d’Herblays: over a score, once all the children were included, and a couple of dogs to boot, so that even the decently large main house was filled to the brim with the wonderful bustle of life.
D’Artagnan had given up fairly early on at his attempt to chart it all out. Who was a blood sibling and who just by marriage; which parent belonged to which child and which children to each other; who lived on the land here and who had hurried up from a few leagues down the road as soon as the message had been delivered-- he just couldn’t keep it all straight. What he did come to understand was that it just didn’t matter. Everyone there was family, and d’Artagnan had felt the last of his resentment towards Aramis slip away as he saw just how much the man had needed this, had needed to sink into this great ocean of affection, had needed the full arsenal of loved ones to finally begin to heal his lingering loneliness.
Aramis had been lonelier than any of them, after all. At first it had seemed as though he’d always resent Aramis for his actions, even though he’d begun to accept them-- but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Aramis had been hurt just as badly.
The second night at the distillery he’d slumped to the ground at his oldest sister’s feet and spilled for her, for everyone, the story of the past two months. He hecho algo terrible, he’d murmured; I’ve done something terrible. Then the words, and the tears, began to pour so quickly that d’Artagnan’s half-grasp of Spanish failed him, and he sat quietly and listened not to what Aramis was saying but to how he was saying it, to the guilt and the regret and the hunger for forgiveness.
When he’d finished, there had been silence.
Then Sofia had hugged Aramis, and Gustave had hugged Athos, and two or three nieces at once had hugged Porthos, and someone-- Margot, maybe?-- had even hugged d’Artagnan. A collectively held breath was released then.
After that the visit had been basically a holiday. Aramis had passed the hours chatting endlessly with his sisters, while Porthos played with the children and Athos and Gustave wandered the grounds and discussed, in sophisticated chemical terms, the finer points of alcohol distillation.
And d’Artagnan, of course, set to work.
A distillery was not a farm, but there were plenty of similarities: weeds around the plum trees that needed to be seen to, a small flock of chickens and a cow whose eggs and milk needed to be collected. And gardens-- gardens. At some point on the third day, Athos and Gustave had discovered him ensconced in one of these; d’Artagnan’s host had reminded him, quite kindly, that he was a guest and not a hired hand.
He’s a Gascon and a farmer’s son, Athos had explained. And d’Artagnan had smiled sheepishly, and Gustave had shrugged and left him to it. And so he’d passed the next days happily, and ended them covered in earth and sore in places he’d forgotten how to be sore in.
“Not sure the pup wanted t’come back,” Porthos chuckled, shaking d’Artagnan from his thoughts. “Hell, ‘m not sure I did.” D’Artagnan glanced over at his friend, who smiled in understanding.
They’d pressed their stay an extra day and left a scant four days for the return journey, all of them, it seemed, wanting to bask in the countryside as long as they could. But in the end, d’Artagnan did want to be home as well. They’d taken nearly three full weeks to talk and laugh-- and fight, and cry-- and remember how to be four, instead of three. But it had felt like something separate and special. He was looking forward to a return to the everyday, where it might finally be like they’d left this entire saga behind them.
“I should visit more often,” Aramis mused. “I’m lucky to have them.”
“You are,” Athos agreed. “And you should.”
“An’ he’s not only sayin’ that ‘cause of all the brandy we brought back. Partially, but not only.”
Athos’ smiled at Porthos’ light-hearted teasing, and patted his satchel full of linen-wrapped bottles. “If by some strange fate I live beyond my usefulness as a soldier, I believe your brother’s career will be the one I emulate, Aramis.”
They had reached the city cobblestones, and the horses’ hooves clacked loudly; the noise, combined with a sudden swell of emotion, kept Aramis’ reply from reaching d’Artagnan’s ears. If I live beyond my usefulness as a soldier. It had been an innocent comment on Athos’ part, and yet the nonchalance, the ease with which Athos referenced the idea of his own death--
“With us, pup?” Porthos called.
D’Artagnan blinked, the sticky fog clearing a little from his mind. “Yeah, sorry.”
“We’ve ridden far longer than proper,” Aramis noted, “for four days straight. Only natural at this point to be a little cross-eyed.”
“Who’s cross-eyed?” d’Artagnan griped. “I’m just looking forward to sleeping in a bed tonight. Why can’t your brother’s distillery be, you know, closer?”
“You’re the last person I should have to lecture regarding crops and climates!” Aramis crowed. D’Artagnan laughed, tipping his head to this. They passed the last few minutes of their journey without speaking, the buzz of Paris in the evening surrounding them with all the noise they required.
At last they crossed the threshold of the garrison. “Home sweet home,” Porthos murmured, and d’Artagnan glanced over at him; there was not the slightest hint of humor or sarcasm in his voice, just unadulterated relief. All at once d’Artagnan realized just how haggard Porthos was looking. His eyes were heavy and shadowed, lips slightly parted, as though he couldn’t quite catch his breath; there was a dullness to his complexion that made d’Artagnan’s heart twinge a bit. They’d been side-by-side almost constantly for weeks now. How was it that in this time he’d tended less to Porthos, thought less of his insomnia and his need for camaraderie? In the nights, Porthos had laid himself down and closed his eyes, like the rest of them. It had seemed intrusive and improper for d’Artagnan to check on him then, to test if he were really asleep and offer comfort if he were not-- but now he found himself wishing that he’d done so.
Well. The holiday at Aramis’ family home had seemed restorative, but upon further contemplation, Porthos looked as worn down as ever, and d’Artagnan himself felt ready to cry at the barest suggestion that somehow, someday, something bad might happen to one of his friends.
At least Aramis seemed happier. And Athos-- well, d’Artagnan was never really sure about him, to be fair, not even after well over a year of friendship.
So maybe a return to routine really was what they needed. To wake up early, report to the garrison, eat breakfast crowed together in the mess or the yard, and head off to their duties. Eat dinner together, get some sleep, and repeat the next morning. It had been months now since their lives had fit into even the shakiest of rhythms, and with luck that was the cause behind the achy unease that pervaded d’Artagnan’s world.
At the stables now, they dismounted.
“Drinks?” d’Artagnan suggested, as they bid their horses goodnight and left them in the hands of the stableboy. It was too late for chores and too early for bed. And despite the fact that they’d see each other again in the morning, to part so easily seemed all too abrupt after spending three weeks side-by-side almost constantly.
Aramis chuckled. “I’m done in, for my part. And that’s Athos’ I love you all but I value my alone time face.”
Athos smirked. “I do.”
“Love us all, or value your alone time?”
“I’ll have one, pup,” Porthos agreed, and d’Artagnan felt himself relax a little. “Mind jus’ stayin’ in though?”
“Yeah, course not. I think I might have a bottle of brandy somewhere around here.” Porthos smiled, knowing full well they each had three or four in their packs.
They parted ways with Aramis and Athos and crossed the short distance to d’Artagnan’s apartment. The candles crackled with dust as d’Artagnan lit them, then carried one around to scan the room for any overlarge spider webs that might have appeared in his absence. Finding none, he kicked his boots off and settled across from Porthos at the table.
They opened a bottle of d’Artagnan’s brandy and drank for a while in easy silence; before long the day caught up with d’Artagnan, and he found his chin resting heavily on his fist.
“Awright?” Porthos prompted. D’Artagnan nodded slowly.
“Want I should stay tonight?”
“Nah. I’m fine. Unless-- do you want to?”
“Nope. ‘m fine too.” They shared a glance, comfortable in their shared half-truth, and then Porthos pushed to his feet. “Try t’make it as far as the bed at least, yeah? Or all I’ll hear about tomorrow’ll be the crick in your neck.”
“Mm. I’ll try. ‘night, Porthos.”
“’night, d’Artagnan,” Porthos’ voice replied, and then there was the sound of a door shutting.
*
The night was warm as Porthos wandered back to his own apartment. In the chaos of the past few months he’d all but lost sense of the turning of the seasons, and now he realized that it was less than two weeks until his birthday. Strange. Although the odds were against it being his actual day of birth, he did have the habit of updating his age at that point. He kept the estimate private, of course. But as near as he could figure, he was now thirty-two, so in a few weeks’ time he’d think of himself as thirty-three.
Last year, turning thirty-two had seemed an easy thing. Now, the notion of turning thirty-three seemed exhausting-- though most things seemed exhausting to Porthos now. Probably because he was always exhausted.
He’d hoped, at the beginning of this, that his sleeplessness would abate as his grief grew calmer with time. It hadn’t. Then Aramis had returned, and he’d hoped that it would abate as his anger with Aramis faded.
It hadn’t.
Porthos arrived at his apartment; once inside he undressed, performed his evening abulations, and crawled into bed. Half an hour later, he sighed and hauled himself back out. This was a dance he could do with his eyes closed by now, a dance that he could have done-- oh, sweet irony-- in his sleep. He collapsed into the spindly chair by the window and put his head in his hands. He’d sit here a while, feeling a bit better for being upright at least, and count the bell tolls of the church clock as they dashed away the night in neat quarter-hours. His mind would wander, neither fully awake nor fully asleep. Then, in some dark, small hour, he would finally feel lassitude win out over restlessness, and he’d fall into bed and sleep until dawn woke him.
Feeling small in his loneliness, Porthos leaned his head against the window frame. Staying with d’Artagnan might have helped a bit, but imposing on him nightly when he had his own issues to sort out seemed greedy. It just wasn’t a long term solution. And sleeplessness was a long term problem now; he was slowly accepting that it was not about to leave him any time soon. It hurt, but he’d live with it.
He’d lived with worse. And he didn’t exactly have a choice.
In the morning Porthos rose, gloomy and groggy, but with some manner of hope that the day would be a good one. It was their first day of duty in nearly a month-- Aramis’ first in over two months. Today was the day, or so it seemed, that they all would return to the world of the living.
“Morning,” d’Artagnan called, as Porthos entered the garrison. He, Athos, and Aramis had already taken up their customary table, and with a pang of pleasant nostalgia, Porthos fetched some breakfast and joined them.
“Orders?” he asked, settling in.
“Letter delivery,” Athos replied. “Two, both within the city limits. Treville is easing us back in.”
“Awright. Nice day for a walk.” Encouraged, Porthos began to eat. Perhaps it really would be a good day after all.
“If you say so,” d’Artagnan whined. “It’s getting too hot for my tastes.”
“That’s a hell of a thing for a Gascon to say,” Aramis teased, and d’Artagnan shrugged.
“I don’t mind,” Porthos cut in. “You know what heat means?”
“Sweat?”
“Means my birthday’s comin’ up.”
Nobody replied to that for a moment, and Porthos wasn’t sure if they were all thinking of the events of his last birthday, or of all that had happened in the year since. Both were somewhat sobering topics. But the hush was short-lived, and Aramis grinned and clapped him on the back.
“I like your birthday because it means mine’s not too far off. What do you want for it? Women and wine?”
“Peace an’ quiet,” Porthos declared, then amended, “an’ a party, of course. With music. I want music.”
“For dancing with women?”
“Perhaps we can get him drunk enough to dance with a pole, as happened two years ago,” Athos suggested.
Aramis laughed, but Porthos felt his mood sour once again. There had been a time when he’d truly enjoyed drinking to excess-- a time when he’d been a genuinely happy drunk-- but since passing out on his last birthday and waking up framed for murder, he had gotten truly drunk only once. It had been the one-month anniversary of Aramis’ death, or so he’d thought. He’d passed out again, in d’Artagnan’s arms this time, and though he’d woken safely the next morning he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt as horrible as he had then. He missed the feeling of drinking for fun.
He missed the feeling of having fun.
Damn, and he’d been doing so well not moping-- but optimism wasn’t easy on four hours of sleep.
“The letters,” Athos cut in, changing the subject smoothly. “One is to go to Saint Marceau, and one to Germain.”
“I call Marceau,” Porthos announced, trying to force himself back into the conversation.
“Wait, why are we splitting up?”
Athos frowned at d’Artagnan’s question. “The destinations are on opposite ends of Paris.”
“But we’ve got all day!”
“Just because these are our only orders, does not mean we should not see to them in a timely fashion,” Athos replied. “Treville may well have more for us once we’re finished with these.”
“Fine,” d’Artagnan huffed. “I’ll take Marceau as well.”
“I think you had better come with me to Germain. The household we’ll be visiting is-- known to Aramis. For discretion’s sake he should go to Marceau.”
Peeking over at the addresses, Aramis groaned. “Yes, that household is known to me. Thank you, Athos. Marceau it is, then!”
Aramis grinned over at him, and Porthos tried his damnedest to smile back; he and Aramis had always been a natural pairing when the four of them split in two. Now he found himself wishing he were going with d’Artagnan instead.
Then he found himself feeling painfully guilty for wishing it, and told himself firmly that he would have to work to hide that desire.
Perhaps he did not do the best of jobs. As he and Aramis took their assigned letter and headed off for the northeast of the city, what should have felt like a natural rhythm between them felt awkward and stiff. They’d spent a solid three weeks together, just now. The difference, though, was that those weeks had seen all four of them together; there were only a few times at which he and Aramis had truly been alone.
Being only with Aramis had once felt more natural than being by himself. But now--
“I’m tired of things being strange between us,” Aramis announced.
Porthos spluttered. The man had never been once to mince words, at least not where matters such as this were concerned. At least that had not changed.
“Me too,” Porthos sighed. “Wish it were just as simple as us agreein’ on that.”
They shared a sad smile then. In Aramis’ eyes, Porthos could see the same conflict that he felt, the same mixture of loneliness and hopefulness, but also the hesitation of someone steeling himself for disappointment.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Aramis prompted. “Please. Is it all still because of-- what I did?”
They’d reached the Seine now, and Porthos breathed in the damp air as they followed its banks northward. Waves and gulls and the cries of dock workers cushioned his thoughts.
In the end he answered the question with a question. “Do you really think you’ll resign your commission? Take your vows?”
Aramis was silent for a while. They had reached their customary bridge, and began to cross it. “Probably,” he said at last. “But I won’t do anything without letting you all know first.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Mm.”
“Why wouldn’t you just go back to your family? You said you were thinkin’ of it anyway, once enough time had passed.”
Aramis paused. He stepped over to the railing of the bridge, stared moodily into the water. “I’m still a danger. That much hasn’t changed.”
“So in a few years? Wait it out here and then go there. You were happy there. I saw it.”
“For a short visit. For a week or two. All the reasons I left ten years ago-- they’re all still true.”
“Never did quite work that one out,” Porthos admitted, leaning with his back to the railing. “Pup was right. Rest of us’re a bunch of orphans. You have a home, an’ you keep away.”
“I love my family. More deeply than I can express. But they precisely as they are-- a brandy maker and a pack of farmer’s wives.”
“An’ you’re so much-- grander?”
“No! No, no. They’re just contented, is what I mean. They’re satisfied.”
“That’s somethin’ you never are, for sure.”
“Even as children I never once saw any of them bored, not even on a rainy day.”
“An’ yet you’re the one thinkin’ of life at a monastery?”
Aramis tipped his head forward with a sigh, and ran a hand though his hair. “I don’t know.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“I don’t know-- where I’m supposed to be,” Aramis admitted. “I’m from the country, I know, but it doesn’t feel that way anymore. But I’m so weary of the city.”
“An’ the monastery?”
“Wouldn’t be for fun. Wouldn’t be a place I went because I wanted to. And maybe that’s perfect, given that I have no idea what I want.”
“So are you goin’ or not?” Without fully meaning to, Porthos realized he’d crossed his arms. “I just wanna know if I should bother gettin’ used to you again.”
A little noise escaped Aramis then, nearly lost to the sounds of the Seine. That had hurt. And Porthos had meant it to.
“If that’s how you feel about it, maybe I should.”
Porthos was pretty sure that Aramis had meant that to hurt just as badly.
“Look, here’s where I stand, eh?” Porthos pulled in a breath, tried to keep his voice steady. “You asked what I was thinkin’.This monastery business-- you can’t hold it over us.” Out of the corner of his eye he could see Aramis staring up at him, but he kept his own gaze resolutely fixed across to the other railing of the bridge.
“Ain’t fair to us,” he continued. “An’ I don’t just mean because it’s where you went when you was gone. You can’t bait us with it. You can’t use it to hook us in like we’re fish, punish us like we’re stupid things every time you’re upset. I’m not sayin’ I wouldn’t miss you. I would miss you t’hell and back. But if you’re gonna go, go. An’ if you’re gonna stay, shut up about it.”
“And if I’m not sure?”
“Then shut up until you are.”
“And if I need my best friend to help me think through such an important decision?”
“You know what I think.”
“Yeah,” Aramis sighed. “Yes, I do.”
Porthos pushed himself up from the railings. “C’mon. Let’s get this stupid fuckin’ letter where it’s goin’.”
The rest of the journey was beyond awkward now, fully painful. Aramis fell behind. Porthos let him, and from that point on until they returned to the garrison they kept a few steps apart at all times. Back at the garrison Treville gave them work detail. Mucking out the stables was an awful task in and of itself, but the tension with Aramis made it so much worse, and even Athos and d’Artagnan joining them did not help matters.
They broke for an early supper, then got straight back to work. By the time the sun was setting Porthos was achy and miserable and exhausted-- not to mention he stank of horse shit. Aramis looked to be in much the same condition.
So nobody seemed very excited when they finally exited the stables and d’Artagnan promptly offered, “drinks?”
Porthos glanced up at the boy, and found Athos and Aramis doing the same thing.
“Keep this up and you’ll out-Athos Athos,” Aramis replied, frowning a little. “I’m exhausted. Sorry, mon ami.”
“I need a wash. Perhaps tomorrow,” Athos suggested, and he and Aramis took their leave.
D’Artagnan turned expectantly towards Porthos; his hopeful expression faded to one of utter glumness as he registered the response on Porthos’ own face. “Sorry, pup,” Porthos offered, honestly feeling it. “I’m jus’ not up for it tonight. Truth be told, me an’ Aramis had a bit of a talk, and I needa think through some things.”
Perhaps realizing Porthos’ mood for the first time, d’Artagnan frowned. “Are you all right?”
“No,” Porthos admitted. “I’m not.”
The boy nodded and offered a sympathetic smile. “You’re talking, though. It’s good you two are getting it all out.”
“Maybe. I dunno, ’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. C’mere.” Porthos found himself drawn then into a brief but solid hug, and his eyes slid shut as he basked in d’Artagnan’s warmth.
“Goodnight, Porthos.” The boy clapped him on the shoulder as they drew apart.
“’night, pup,” Porthos replied, and watched over d’Artagnan for a moment as he turned and jogged off across the garrison.