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Porthos blinks awake, to haze and ache and the realization that, despite high hopes, his fever has not broken in his sleep.
And a voice.
He wakes to a voice as well, does not have to look far to find Aramis, rosary in hand, praying quietly. The words are Latin, some of the many that Porthos cannot recognize. But he knows, both by logic and by the warmth in his belly, that the words are for him. Aramis’ features are calm, but for his brow, which is creased just a little. His marksman fingers move expertly down the string of beads, as though they were some sort of divine instrument, playing Porthos back to health.
It’s touching. Rather than admit to this, of course, Porthos grouches, “Ar, ’m not dyin’.”
There’s just the slightest hint of a right? added onto that, because Aramis knows more about these things than he does. Then again, it is his body, after all. And he doesn’t feel like he’s dying, only aching and sweating and waiting for the next few days to slip by.
But Aramis opens his eyes and clucks at him. “No, you’re not dying, my friend. And if you’d let me teach you your prayers, as I have repeatedly offered to do, you would realize that this is not a prayer for the dying. Only the feverish and slightly miserable.”
Well. He is definitely feverish-and-slightly-miserable.
“Awright. Carry on.”
“My thanks for your gracious permission,” Aramis replies, primly. He hates being interrupted while praying. Porthos knows this; he also knows that Aramis would not snipe at him if he were really in any danger, and therefore takes it as another reassurance.
Maybe for this reason, he can’t help interrupting again.
“C’n you wet this cloth?”
Aramis opens his eyes, glares.
“What? You’re over there prayin’ for my wellbein’-- but you won’t actually help it along?”
With an almighty sigh, Aramis grabs Porthos’ hand, wraps the rosary around his fingers for safekeeping, and peels the nearly-dried cloth from his forehead. Then he shuffles off to the basin of water just outside of Porthos’ line of sight. A moment later, the newly damp cloth is spread over his heated brow, and Porthos sighs in relief. Aramis clucks again, shakes his head.
“If we’re quite finished with the interruptions, I’ll take my rosary back now.”
Instead of handing it over, though, Porthos worries it thoughtfully. “I can see why you like it s’much,” he mumbles. “It is kinda soothin’.”
“You are a quick learner. Whenever you’d--”
“Not talkin’ ‘bout Latin. Talkin’ ‘bout holdin’ these beads-- it’s nice. Makes me feel better.”
Aramis huffs out a sigh. “Well, fuck,” he says, “now I can’t take it back.”
“Watch your mouth. You only told Our Lady to hold on a tick-- I’ll bet she’s still listenin’.”
Aramis sighs again, a bit more calmly this time, and the next thing Porthos knows he has pulled the chair a bit closer, sat, and wrapped all ten fingers around the rosary-- and Porthos’ hand. He holds on gently. His palms press the round beads into Porthos’ skin, and it doesn’t hurt, feels like pebbles on the edge of some lake somewhere. He feels the cool mist on his face.
“Close your eyes,” Aramis orders, “and let me finish praying for you.”
Porthos obeys.
*
It’s raining.
He doesn’t hate the rain, because despite all else he is still a farmer-- somewhere inside. He doesn’t hate the rain, because it brings the earth to life. He doesn’t hate the rain, because it always gave him and his father food and business and relief, all the days of their lives, which surely outnumbers one.
One day. One terrible day in the rain, but it wasn’t even the rain’s fault.
He doesn’t always think of his papa in the rain, but with the loss of the farm still heavy on his shoulders and the holidays coming only weeks away-- and with nothing to do but sit under the wooden awning and wait for the storm to pass--
Of course, right now, he’s thinking about him.
The garrison has emptied, everybody doing their best to escape the nearly-icy December storm. He lives here now, could easily bolt back to his quarters. Instead he finds himself at the mouth of the stables, kept dry but not warm, soothed by the scent of hay and the sounds of horses, but not enough to lift the sorrow from him.
The boots that enter his line of sight are a surprise. The sound of somebody settling down again the next pole over is equally so, and he spares a moment to glance up and recognize Aramis. They do not speak. They do not even really acknowledge each other, and d’Artagnan goes back to staring at the ripples in the puddles in the mud.
It’s then that he hears it. The smooth, familiar voice is quiet, offering up words in a language he used to know more of. Aramis is praying-- praying for him. It’s the sort of kindness that would prompt a smile and a moment of gratitude, on a normal day, but today is not a normal day and rather than thanking Aramis or just sitting and listening, d’Artagnan folds his knees to his chest and begins to cry.
Aramis doesn’t react. Doesn’t come sit closer, doesn’t pause in his prayers, only plunges steadily onwards while tears and more tears and a little bit of snot pour silently down d’Artagnan’s face. He must look quite the vision. But the prayers and the rain together feel like a curtain, and he feels safe behind it. Safe to let go. Safe to stop being a soldier and a grown man and, for just a moment, to be a boy who misses his papa.
Aramis’ voice is like summertime. Is like a hand on his shoulder, holding him steady as he cries and cries-- cries like he hasn’t in a long time, like he’s needed to for a long time.
And then, with a whispered Amen, Aramis stops.
D’Artagnan glances over to find only Aramis’ boots again; he has stood, and pauses only a moment before he leaves.
There’s anger, for a moment; there’s disappointment. He isn’t done yet, being a wretched mess, besides which Aramis could have taken a moment to pass him a hanky or help him to his feet.
And still. He feels stronger than he felt before, and maybe this was Aramis’ point-- maybe he meant for him to find this out himself. In any case it seems a little ungrateful to just sit there and keep crying.
D’Artagnan pushes to his feet, scrubs away the tears, and follows Aramis into the rain.
*
The locket that’s no longer at his chest feels like an anchor he shouldn’t’ve loosed, and now he feels like a ship that might just bob away. It’s a nauseous, dizzy, upside-down feeling. They’re proud of him, his friends say, at least he sees it in their eyes, but he doesn’t need somebody to be proud of him-- he needs somebody to pull him back to shore.
But he, of course, isn’t doing himself any favors there. Instead he rejected every offer of drinks, or dinner, or company, and exiled himself back to his apartment-- though it must be said he left his door unlocked.
He left his door unlocked, and now he just needs somebody to step through it. He stares and stares and stares for so long that when it finally cracks open he hardly thinks it real.
It’s real. It’s Aramis.
Athos closes his eyes, tries to turn away-- instead holds his hand out, begging his friend to take it like a rope. Aramis does. A moment later he’s at his side, and Athos slumps, so completely it feels like every bone in his body has vanished. Aramis holds him up easily.
“It's all right, my friend. Athos, it's all right.”
A whine rises in his chest, and Aramis’ fingers tighten, digging into the flesh at his shoulder and hip.
“Athos,” Aramis whispers. “Querido, I've got you.”
The tears are hot like acid and already his throat feels raw from withholding them; if he gives in, if he lets go--
“I have you.”
He isn’t quite sure what happens next; in fact, try as he might, Athos will never remember the following minutes. All he knows is that sooner or later he finds himself sitting against the wall, throbbing head pillowed on Aramis’ shoulder. Aramis has an arm around him. He’s stroking his elbow with a calloused thumb, murmuring so quietly that even at this distance his words are lost.
Athos grunts as he returned to himself. Judging by the lingering hitch in his lungs and the water stains on the fabric beneath him, his weeping had been profuse. How dignified. It’s nearly ended by now, though, down to a few sniffs and the occasional tear that seems sprung more from habit than any conscious sorrow.
Aramis’ monologue-- a prayer, it seems-- halts. “Back with us?” he asks, gently.
“I--” Athos croaks, then clears his throat. “I believe so.” He’s got a frantic grip on his friend’s shirtfront, he now sees, and unkinks his fingers with effort, stretching them as he does so.
“Good,” Aramis replies, but makes no move to release his embrace. The quiet prayer resumes.
Athos knows his Latin; was a good student and a good Catholic, so many years ago. Still prays now, actually, every once in a while.
Still he shuts his mind off to the words-- does not want prayers as badly as he wants the lilting rhythm of Aramis’ voice and the gentle movement of his breathing. Bit by bit he calms. Every beat of his pounding head grows less and less severe, and the tightness in his chest and stomach eases.
Exhausted by relief, Athos settles against Aramis once again.
The arm around him draws him closer, and he feels his friend’s head come to lean gently atop his own. He sighs.
“Join, if you like,” Aramis offers, softly, but Athos shakes his head. This is all he needs.
This is all he needs.
*
His mind has not really caught up to things yet-- and can he be blamed?-- and even though he’s moving through events none of it seems real until the press of Athos’ lips to his cheek.
Then he remembers.
He’s a traitor and a fugitive and a danger to all those he loves; he needs a bath and a hot meal and a bed, and about a thousand more hugs and kisses before he’ll feel even halfway human again.
But there’s no time, as the captain so dutifully reminds him. They’ve got to get Vargas to the king. They’ve got to fix this all. They’ve got to-- got to--
And then Porthos’ arm is around his waist, bracing him gently; d’Artagnan steps back to his side, and Athos stands before him. And Treville’s words cannot prevent this. Their varied audience-- lovers and former lovers and captains and spymasters, for God’s sake-- cannot prevent this, this moment that they are going to take for themselves.
Athos touches their foreheads together. He is warm, and soft, and familiar, and in the little alcove of Porthos’ and d’Artagnan’s bodies, he whispers:
“Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen.”
It’s the shortest prayer on the books, and Aramis lets go a huff of frantic laughter, picturing the tiny Comte de la Fère praying when told to but in his charmingly taciturn way. His brevity is appreciated now. They do not have long, they do not even have the time they are taking, and yet here in his most despicable hour his friends are all around him. Porthos and d’Artagnan are silent. But their good intentions, the warmth that he feels bleeding from their arms and from their very souls, converge with Athos’ prayer and makes him strong where he was not strong a moment before.
When they pull away, he is ready.