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D’Artagnan meets Porthos first. He runs into the man in the staff locker rooms at the hotel, while he’s pulling on his porters’ uniform and trying to remember all of the instructions Treville, the night manager, has handed down to him.
“There’s not much to do at night,” Porthos says, when D’Artagnan asks. He has a badge on his chest that says SECURITY, and a walkie talkie on his hip. “Sometimes there are late arrivals, and someone may ask you to carry something every once in a while, but otherwise, you’ve just got to keep yourself busy.” He grins, and D’Artagnan relaxes at the sight of the toothy grin. “Easiest paycheck in the world. Just one thing: don’t let Athos scare you. He’s all bark and no bite.”
“Athos?” D’Artagnan asks, but Porthos just grins again and salutes him, heading off on his rounds. “Who the hell is Athos?”
“He’s at the front desk,” one of the women in the staff room tells him. She’s got curly red hair that’s she’s pinning up, and her locker seems to be entirely full of law textbooks. “Bit scary, but he’s quite sweet once you get to know him.”
“What’s so scary about him?” D’Artagnan asks, and the woman – Constance – makes a face at him in the mirror she’s using to put up her hair.
“He’s got this glare, sort of like…” She makes a horrible face, and grins when he laughs. “He’s always reading, and he gets very snappish if you interrupt him. And he’s very particular about the first floor coffee maker, so I’d stay away from it, if I were you.”
D’Artagnan frowns. “Good to know, I suppose.”
Constance smiles at him and turns away from the mirror, her curls swept away from her face in an impeccable arrangement. She pulls one of the law texts from her locker and tucks it under her arm, slamming the locker shut with a satisfying clang. Together, they walk out of the locker room, Constance heading off to the administrative offices, and D’Artagnan to the first of many tasks Treville had given him.
The graveyard shift runs from 9 pm to 5 in the morning, and D’Artagnan is finished with his work by midnight, and quickly reduced to wandering the hallways so that he doesn’t fall asleep on his first night on the job.
He’s gotten lost somewhere around the darkened conference rooms on the third floor, and steps into the elevator to find more familiar ground, ending up in the lobby by accident.
There’s a man with long hair, a beard, and a thick book sitting in a chair behind the front desk, and he looks up with a glower when the elevator pings open and emits D’Artagnan. Ah, this must be Athos then.
D’Artagnan waves sheepishly, and the glower settles into an impressive glare. D’Artagnan hurries off, running into Porthos in the hall near the lobby. Porthos takes one look at his face, and grins ruefully.
“Had a run in with Athos?” When D’Artagnan nods, he shrugs and says: “Eighth floor’s empty, if you want to join me and the rest of the lads for a kick-around. We’ve got a soccer ball in the locker room for occasions like this.”
As newbie, D’Artagnan is relegated to the role of goalie in a vicious and mostly silent round of soccer played between the porters, security, and other nighttime staff. He gets rugburn on both forearms while diving to save a goal, and slaps on the back from Porthos’ security buddies when they emerge victorious.
The sun is just stretching up over the horizon when their shifts are over, and there’s a general crush in the staff locker room as the shifts change. D’Artagnan changes and waves goodbye to Porthos and Constance. He passes Athos on his way out of the door, but the man doesn’t so much as look in his direction.
+
D’Artagnan likes his job at the hotel. He has class in the afternoon, and he goes to his lectures, spends some time in the studio, naps, and then heads to the hotel. He gets a half hour break in the middle of his shift, when he seeks out Porthos, more often than not, to sneak onto the roof, or see if they can find leftovers in the kitchen.
He spends time with Constance when Treville doesn’t have anything for him to do, when Porthos can’t be found, and learns about the way she’s paying her way through law school with a combination of scholarships, hard work, and sheer bloody-mindedness.
He avoids the lobby, and Athos, and only ever sees the man occasionally in the staff room, or near the coffee machines on the first floor.
The first time he talks to Athos, it’s close to three in the morning.
D’Artagnan is exhausted. He’s running on just a few hours of sleep, an essay for his art history class clouding most of his mind, when he stumbles toward the coffee machine on the ground floor of the hotel. The one on the second floor near the dining rooms – the good one that makes espresso – is busted, and he’s desperate.
He’s so tired that he doesn’t notice Athos at first, until the other man smacks the right side of the coffee machine with his fist, then hits the top of it with the palm of his hand, and jiggles the cord three times.
The coffee maker hisses in response, and the scent of freshly brewing coffee is so welcome that D’Artagnan shuffles forward, and sighs appreciatively.
Athos whips around, glare already in place, but D’Artagnan is tired enough to not care. “Can you show me how to make it make good coffee?” He asks, a little desperately, and Athos’ glare softens.
“You can have a cup when it’s done,” he offers, and his voice is low, rough from disuse, but kind.
“Thank you,” D’Artagnan says emphatically, and wraps his fingers around the paper cup. He adds creamer to it, and three packets of Splenda, before downing half of it in one go. Beside him, Athos raises an eyebrow.
“Rough day?” He asks, and D’Artagnan sighs, and scrubs a hand over his face.
“Rough week,” he says, and takes another swig of coffee.
Athos hums in sympathy, and sips at his own coffee. He picks up a book from where he’d placed it on the counter with the coffee maker, and tucks it beneath his arm. D’Artagnan catches a glimpse of the title, and hides a smile in his coffee cup, trailing after Athos as the older man heads back to his seat behind the front desk.
“Many years later,” D’Artagnan says, before he can help himself, as Athos settles back into his chair and book, “As he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aurelio Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.”
Athos’ gaze whips up to his own, and he flushes, gesturing awkwardly with his cup at the book Athos is clenching in his hands. “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” he says, and shrugs. “It’s my favorite book.”
Something flashes in Athos’ eyes, and he bends his head over the well-worn text. “It’s one of mine as well,” he says softly, and something warm fizzes in D’Artagnan’s stomach that’s not just the caffeine.
“I have some reading to do for class,” he says, slowly. “I have a paper due on Italian baroque sculpture in a couple days, do you mind if I read about Bernini with you?”
Athos’ eyebrows shoot upwards, lost in his scruffy hair, and he regards D’Artagnan quietly for a long moment before nodding, and kicking the other chair at the front desk forward. D’Artagnan beams, and he leaves his half-drunk cup of coffee with Athos as he dashes back to his locker for the textbook and notes he’s been keeping for his essay.
They read in companionable silence for the next hour or so, D’Artagnan taking notes and pushing his hair out of his eyes every so often. He’s hit upon a section of the text that’s particularly relevant for the essay he’s writing, and is scribbling somewhat manically when he realizes that the steady sound of Athos turning pages has stopped. He pauses while outlining a line in his notes and glances up, surprised to find that Athos is looking straight at him.
Athos startles a little bit when their eyes meet, and his gaze drops to the side of D’Artagnan’s face, to his cheekbone. “Are you an artist?” He asks, and D’Artagnan just blinks at him for a moment before clearing his throat to respond.
“Ah… yes. That’s what I’m studying. In school.”
Athos nods, and turns back to his book. D’Artagnan stares at him for another moment, expecting something more than that, but when nothing is forthcoming he blurts: “How did you know?”
Athos looks up at him, his expression bland, and nods in D’Artagnan’s general direction. “You’ve got some paint, just here,” he says gruffly, tapping his own cheekbone with a long finger, and D’Artagnan flushes and scrubs at the offending spot.
“That always happens,” he mutters. “Thanks for letting me know.”
Athos shrugs, and picks his book back up.
+
They settle into a routine after that. D’Artagnan heads to the lobby after he’s finished his duties for the night, pours himself a cup of coffee – Athos shows him how to nudge the coffee maker just so, but no one can make it make coffee that’s quite as good as the coffee Athos is able to get – and joins Athos at the front desk. He reads some nights, texts for class, or the newspaper, or novels.
Sometimes he does the crossword, and distracts Athos from his own reading by pestering him for answers to the clues until Athos heaves a long-suffering sigh and puts his own book down to push D’Artagnan’s hands out of the way while saying: “Tibias, D’Artagnan, not tibia, the clue means that the answer is going to be plural.”
He bends over the crossword, muttering darkly about Will Shortz and D’Artagnan’s handwriting, which is, as he says, “surprisingly bad for an artist,” and D’Artagnan glares at the top of his head until Athos looks up at him with a lopsided smile and says: “It’s not your fault that Will Shortz is a fucking sadist.”
D’Artagnan laughs too loudly in the pre-dawn lobby, but there’s no one but him and Athos to hear. He pushes his chair closer to Athos and they bend over the crossword puzzle together. Athos smells warm, like coffee, and a sharp spice that must be his cologne, and D’Artagnan takes a moment to watch how elegant his fingers are around the pen, before Athos exclaims triumphantly over a clue and bends down to fill it in, muttering something that sounds like: “Not today, Will Shortz, not today.”
D’Artagnan chokes back a laugh, and leans over to read the next clue.
A couple of nights after that, he brings his sketchbook to the front desk, deliberately ignoring Athos while he sets out his pencils and eraser, and flips through the sketchbook to a blank page. Athos raises an eyebrow at him over a heavily annotated Salman Rushdie novel, and goes back to his reading when D’Artagnan raises an eyebrow back at him.
He sinks into his drawing after that, pencil sketching calming arcs across the page as he sketches. He draws Porthos’ profile from memory, the rounded jut of his nose, and the way his skin crinkles when he smiles, and then doodles quick studies of Constance’s hands, before flipping to a new, blank page, and glancing quickly up to make sure Athos is still focused on his book before committing his features to the page.
+
Porthos catches D’Artagnan in the hallway after his first month on the job, and gives him an enormous grin and a small bottle of whiskey. “Congratulations,” he says, “for surviving one month on the job, and for figuring out a way to keep Athos occupied.”
D’Artagnan darts a guilty glance at the sketchbook tucked beneath his arm, which is rapidly filling up with sketches of Athos’ hands, eyes, and mouth. He takes the whiskey from Porthos with a salute, and heads down to the lobby, the bottle rolling in his pocket, and a spring in his step.
He catches Athos at the coffee maker, glaring it into submission, and flicking through the collected works of Shirley Jackson.
“I’ve got a surprise,” D’Artagnan says grinning, and tugs the whiskey from his pocket, waggling his eyebrows. “Want an Irish coffee?”
Athos’ face shutters immediately at the sight of the whiskey, and D’Artagnan falters. “Athos?”
“I can’t…” he takes a breath. “I don’t drink.” He coughs, uncomfortably, for something to fill the silence, and adds: “Sorry.”
D’Artagnan casts a panicked glance at the bottle in his hand and shoves it back into his pocket. “No! No, I’m sorry, I had no idea. I didn’t mean to…”
“Breathe,” Athos drawls, a little bit of his old humor coloring his voice. “It’s alright. You can indulge, if you’d like. I just… don’t.” He studies the coffee maker intently. “Not anymore,” he adds quietly, and D’Artagnan swallows nervously.
“I’m really sorry, I should have thought…”
“It’s fine,” Athos says, waving a hand, and pouring himself a cup of coffee when the coffee maker beeps at him. “Really, it’s okay.”
He leaves the small break room off the lobby, headed for the front desk, and D’Artagnan rushes to pour himself a cup of coffee and follow. Athos has already settled into his chair, and appears to be deep in his book when D’Artagnan joins him. He glances up once, and then again when D’Artagnan flips open his sketchbook and then spends the next ten minutes fidgeting over it.
Finally, Athos sighs, and puts his book down. “Hello, my name is Athos,” he recites dully, meeting D’Artagnan’s eyes when he looks up at him, “and I’m an alcoholic. I’ve been sober for two years, five months, and…” he glances at the calendar on the desk in front of them, “seven days.”
D’Artagnan opens his mouth, and closes it again when he realizes he’s not quite sure what to say.
“You haven’t ruined my progress by offering me a tiny bottle of whiskey, D’Artagnan,” Athos sighs, “It’s fine. I’m a lot better than I used to be. Porthos and I go to the pub sometimes, and if I can stand to be around him and Aramis after a heavy night, then I think I can handle your minibar offerings.”
“I’m really sorry…” D’Artagnan starts, and Athos rolls his eyes expansively.
“Please stop apologizing,” he says sternly as he picks his book up again, and that’s that. D’Artagnan draws Athos’ hands until the end of the shift, the elegant length of them, and doodles a little cartoon of Shirley Jackson that he hands to Athos before heading down to the locker room. He glances back as he leaves the lobby, and grins at the soft smile Athos is giving the drawing.
+
Athos is using D’Artagnan’s drawing as a bookmark the next night, and D’Artagnan’s grins at it as he flops down beside him. They’re silent for the first hour, but for the sounds of coffee slurping and pencil scratching, until D’Artagnan takes a deep breath, and says: “I came to New York after my father died.”
Athos looked up at him with wide, alarmed eyes, and stares at him for a minute before saying, warily: “I’m sorry?”
“It’s okay,” D’Artagnan says. “I mean, it’s not okay that he’s gone. There was a car accident,” he says, and looks away when Athos puts his book down slowly. “I came to the city to testify against the man who did it, and then just, never really went back home.” He shrugs. “He was the only family I had, and when he was gone, I didn’t want to be in the house without him.”
Athos looks spooked, like D’Artagnan has started speaking in tongues, and he reaches slowly for his cup of coffee to take a fortifying sip.
“Why are you telling me this?” He asks, finally, and D’Artagnan picks at the rim of his paper cup full of coffee.
“You told me about being sober, so I thought I should tell you something about me, too.”
Athos stares at him, and D’Artagnan shrugs. “I just thought it would even the playing field.”
Across the lobby from them, the elevator dings, and Porthos steps out, heading their way. He’s nearly at the front desk when Athos says, in a rush: “My ex-wife killed my younger brother. I started drinking because of her.”
It’s D’Artagnan’s turn to stare, until Porthos heaves a sigh from somewhere above their heads.
“If you two miserable buggers are quite finished,” he says, crossing his arms. “Your shifts are over, and Aramis is still working. Let’s go get breakfast.”
Porthos herds them down to the staff locker room, where D’Artagnan hugs Constance goodbye for the night and changes out of his porter’s uniform and into a soft t-shirt and hoodie. Athos is dressed much the same as he always is, but he’s pulled a battered leather jacket over his shoulders that makes D’Artagnan’s mouth go inexplicably dry at the sight of it.
“Who’s Aramis?” He asks, falling into step with Porthos, and doing his best to ignore the way Athos seems to have developed a swagger to go with the leather jacket.
“Aramis is the light of my life,” Porthos says with a smile, and Athos snorts beside him.
Aramis works the graveyard shift at a diner a few blocks from the hotel a couple nights a week. He kisses Porthos hello, and tweaks Athos’ cheek when he shoulders past the two men for a seat in a booth at the corner.
“Who’s the newbie?” Aramis asks, dumping an armful of menus on the table and squeezing in beside Porthos.
“D’Artagnan,” Athos says, before D’Artagnan can introduce himself, and when Aramis leans forward to study him, Athos smacks him on the shoulder with a menu.
“Be nice, both of you,” Porthos says, and winds an arm around Aramis to pull him closer. Aramis nips at his ear.
“What does everyone want to eat, then?” He asks, and jots their orders down on a notepad in a sloppy scrawl, before lobbing the pad itself through the window behind the counter looking into the kitchen, and bellowing: “Serge! Order up!”
There’s a clatter of pans, and a handful of curses in French before the pad comes sailing back towards them and lands on the floor.
“Somehow,” Athos murmurs to D’Artagnan, shrugging out of his leather jacket, “he’s won ‘Employee of the Month’ for the last five months running.” He nods towards the cash register, where there are cheaply laminated index cards reading ‘Employee of the Month’ with a Polaroid of Aramis’ face attached to each.
“That’s only because this place is next to a nursery school, and the mom’s like how he looks in an apron.” Porthos says, and laughs when Aramis pouts at him.
Breakfast is pancakes, bacon, more maple syrup than is strictly advisable, and stacks of buttered toast. They stay in the diner until Aramis’ shift is over, talking aimlessly and shouting back and forth with Serge, the cantankerous chef who pokes his head out of the kitchen to make fun of Aramis and speak to Athos in rapid French. Athos replies in a low tone, his impeccable French making D’Artagnan fidget nearly as much as the leather jacket does.
D’Artagnan catches the bus home, even though Athos offers him a ride, because he’s so tired, and the leather jacket looks so good stretched across Athos’ shoulders, that if he spends much more time in his company, he’s sure he’ll do something he regrets. Instead, he rides the bus, stumbles up the stairs to his apartment, and faceplants on the bed, falling asleep as soon as he’s kicked his shoes off.
+
Breakfast at Aramis’ diner becomes a regular thing, as does D’Artagnan sneaking glances at Athos so that he can draw his expressions, the wrinkles around his eyes, his fingers. He hasn’t drawn a full sketch of Athos, not yet, and he finally manages to ask him early one morning, while they’re standing around the coffee maker, waiting for coffee.
“Come again?” Athos repeats, faintly, and D’Artagnan flushes and forces himself to maintain eye contact.
“I asked if I could draw you,” he says, his ears burning. “I’m doing portraits for a class, and I just thought….”
“Why me?” Athos asks, frowning heavily, and D’Artagnan flushes even harder.
“You have a good face,” he blurts, finally, and that seems to shock Athos into silence. When he agrees, he does so gruffly, and grumbles when D’Artagnan directs him closer to the lamp so that shadows catch on his face in all sorts of alluring ways.
He flips to a new page in his sketchbook and picks up a pencil, missing the way the back of Athos’ neck is flushed a ruddy red, as he concentrates on getting the stern, slightly disconcerted expression on his face down on paper.
Athos is very handsome, and D’Artagnan’s pencil skates hurriedly over the sketchbook paper, trying to capture every last detail, now that he’s finally allowed to look. Athos stops fidgeting after a while, and seems to forget that D’Artagnan is drawing him as he loses himself in his book – Seamus Heaney’s translation of Beowulf, because Athos has the weirdest damn taste in literature D’Artagnan has ever encountered.
D’Artagnan spends nearly half an hour drawing Athos’ mouth, the lazy pull of his cleft lip, and the way one corner of his mouth curls into an omnipresent smirk. Neither of them notice Porthos when he ducks down to the lobby to bother D’Artagnan, and he just rolls his eyes and gives up on them after a while.
It’s nearing the end of their shifts when D’Artagnan puts down his pencil and stretches, and Athos dog-ears the page of his book. He raises his eyebrows at D’Artagnan’s drawing, and D’Artagnan hands it over slowly, his hands covered in graphite.
“It’s not finished, obviously,” he says hurriedly, while Athos studies it. “I have to ink it, and I’ve got your left shoulder wrong somehow, so I’ve got to go back and fix that, and it’s not very good, anyway, so --.”
He stops babbling as soon as Athos looks at him, and hands the drawing back. “It’s really very good,” he says. “I’m not sure about the subject matter, but you’re a talented artist.”
“You’re a good model,” D’Artagnan blurts, and then blushes, fumbling the page as he takes it back from Athos. “I mean, you didn’t move or anything.”
Athos nods stiffly at him, and stands up. “I have to go home now,” he says, and sweeps out of the lobby, leaving D’Artagnan holding his drawing and feeling like a fool, a feeling that certainly isn’t helped by Porthos, who stands in the doorway to the lobby and laughs at him.
+
The week before his spring student art show, D’Artagnan takes printed copies of the invitation to work, and hands them out to Constance and Porthos. The one he printed especially for Athos is burning a hole in his pocket, and he hesitates until the very end of the night, when they’re leaving Aramis’ diner at close to six in the morning.
“Hang on a minute,” he calls, as they begin to drift away from each other in the parking lot. “Aramis, this is for you, Porthos has got one already, but I thought you might like your own,” he passes over the invite, and then turns to Athos, who is wearing that leather jacket again, and looking far too good for this early in the morning.
“And, Athos…” D’Artagnan starts off strong, but his voice fades as soon as he holds the invite out to Athos. “I, uh… I have a piece in the show, and thought you might want to come?” He shoves the invite the rest of the way into Athos’ hands and calls, “Okay, bye!” before booking it out of the parking lot in the direction of the bus stop.
In the distance, he can hear Aramis laugh, and Porthos rumble: “Oh, this is going to be good.”
+
It’s not good. It’s really not good.
An hour before he’s meant to be at the show, D’Artagnan is standing shirtless in front of his closet, and Skyping frantically with Constance.
“D’Artagnan, put that shirt down or so help me!” She’s calling through his computer screen at the moment, and he drops the t-shirt he’d picked up blindly. “The white shirt,” she says, “the button-down, and then show me your jeans.”
He pulls the shirt on, and buttons it, and then re-buttons it when Constance points out that he’s done most of them the wrong way.
“This is a terrible idea,” he tells her, pulling a few pairs of jeans out of his closet and holding them up so she can see them. “I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to invite them.”
“It’s a brilliant idea,” Constance says calmly. “Aramis says that Porthos says that Athos is just as nervous as you are.”
“That’s not helping!”
“Athos doesn’t get nervous,” Constance tells him, sitting in front of her computer with a handful of bobby pins and hairspray. “Athos gets progressively more droll. And Porthos says that he stares at you when you’re not looking, and that you’re both helpless idiots.”
“He doesn’t stare at me,” D’Artagnan says, “Does he?”
“He does,” Constance says. “Wear the black skinny jeans. And don’t fuck this up.”
D’Artagnan gets to the art show with minutes to spare, and stands in front of the painting he’s submitted, trying to remember how to breathe. He’d spent close to a month on this painting, every spare moment he could find in the studio. Athos had leaned forward and rubbed paint off his cheek a total of twelve times because of it.
“Oh god,” D’Artagnan whispers. “This is such a bad idea.”
The gallery fills up alarmingly quickly. D’Artagnan is roped into a conversation with his professor, and he’s still talking to the man when he glances over his shoulder and sees Aramis walk in, Porthos looming behind him. They’re both dressed far more nicely than he’s ever seen, and something in his heart balloons at that – that they’ve made an effort to wash their hair and put on suit jackets and ties (bowties, in Porthos’ case) for his show.
Behind them, the door swings open again, and Constance walks in, with Athos behind her. She’s fairly floating, in a beautiful green dress that compliments her hair, but Athos is standing behind her in a suit – a real suit, not the cheap, easily creased one he wears at the hotel – and D’Artagnan nearly swallows his tongue.
In front of him, his professor asks a question about the way he’s played with light and shadow in his work, and it takes him half a minute to remember how to speak. He forces his mind back to the conversation, answering the questions as best he can, while trying to follow his friends’ progress around the room out of the corner of his eye.
His professor lets him go just before they all get to D’Artagnan’s piece, and he shoves his way through the crowd to Constance’s side, just before Porthos shoulders past the last few people blocking their view of his work.
It’s Athos.
Athos, rendered on a 54” canvas in the most vibrant oils D’Artagnan could find. Athos, his head bent over a book, a smile curving one side of his mouth the way it does when he reads something he finds particularly moving, or when they solve a crossword puzzle, or when D’Artagnan says something he didn’t expect.
It’s a pretty fucking obvious gesture, and Constance grabs his hand and squeezes it while D’Artagnan tries to remember how to breathe, and works up the courage to look at Athos’ face, which is… blank. Just blank.
Aramis and Porthos move forward to study the painting, exclaiming over it, and pulling out their phones to take photos, but Athos stands frozen, his shoulders tense.
“Athos--,” D’Artagnan begins, and Athos turns, his fingers crumpling the tiny water bottle he’d taken from the drinks table.
“Excuse me,” he says, and bolts. There’s a moment of silence, before Constance squeezes D’Artagnan’s hand and hurries after him. Aramis and Porthos flank D’Artagnan, and he’s absurdly grateful for their calming bulk at his side while he presses his hands over his face and inhales and exhales for a moment.
“It’s really good,” Aramis says, after a moment. “The painting, I mean. It’s incredible.”
“Athos is just being an idiot,” Porthos says. “He’ll come around.”
D’Artagnan can feel them exchanging worried glances over his head while he gazes at the painting and wonders how he’s managed to screw everything up so completely. They seem to come to some sort of silent resolution, and Aramis wraps an arm around his shoulders and steers him to the exit.
“Come along,” he says, grandly, “let’s get Serge to make us pancakes.”
+
The diner is empty, and Serge is behind the counter, reading Le Monde, and muttering to himself. He glances up when they walk in, takes one look at D’Artagnan’s face and casts the paper aside, reaching for the coffee pot.
“Sit,” he calls, and Porthos steers D’Artagnan into their normal booth, and brings over mugs of coffee for everyone.
Porthos and Aramis are good company, and they keep D’Artagnan distracted with their light-hearted bickering, but the conversation falls flat – Athos’ snark adds something extra to the mix, and it’s all too noticeable when he’s not there.
Serge brings them plates of pancakes and bacon, and hands D’Artagnan a sticky bottle of syrup in the shape of a maple leaf. “Grade A,” he says, confidentially, “from my own stash. Good for a broken heart.”
“Is it possible to have a broken heart, when we were never dating?” D’Artagnan asks, and Porthos pats him heavily on the shoulder.
“He’ll come around,” Aramis says, bracingly, and shoves a towering pile of toast in D’Artagnan’s direction. “Eat up.”
D’Artagnan is halfway through his plate of pancakes when the door swings open and Athos walks in, followed by Constance. He looks a little shell-shocked, and he’s still wearing the suit, which makes him look long and lean, and more perfect than D’Artagnan remembers.
At the table, D’Artagnan scowls at his food, flushing. There’s a small commotion at the front of the diner which makes him look up, to where Serge is smacking the back of Athos’ head, while Constance nods her approval.
Athos glances up, meets D’Artagnan’s eyes, and flushes, immediately. There’s another scuffle, as Constance drags him to the table, and sits primly beside Aramis, stealing a strip of bacon from his plate.
“Could I speak to you for a moment, D’Artagnan?” Athos asks, and he’s so obviously uncomfortable that D’Artagnan feels bad for him. He’s pretty sure Athos is about to break his heart, but they may be able to salvage their friendship, at the very least.
“Sure,” he says, dropping his fork, and standing. He tries a smile, and blinks when Athos trips over his own feet at the sight of it. Behind them, Porthos does a bad job of concealing the fact that he’s laughing at them.
Athos leads him to the counter, and accepts a mug of coffee from a glowering Serge.
“I’ve, uh…” Athos begins, long fingers tracing circles around the rim of his mug. “I’ve been a bit of an idiot.”
“That’s okay,” D’Artagnan says, automatically, and Athos shakes his head firmly.
“No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have just left without an explanation, that was incredibly rude of me.”
D’Artagnan flushes, and he grits his teeth. This is it. Athos is going to let him down gently, because he’s a gentleman, and D’Artagnan will never be able to show his face at the hotel again.
“The painting was beautiful,” Athos says, softly, and when D’Artagnan steals a glance at him, he’s fiddling nervously with a saltshaker. “You’re really… you’re so incredibly talented, D’Artagnan, and so smart, and…” He shakes his head, as if to clear it. “The last relationship I was in was… not a healthy one, and I’m just… not sure how to proceed here.”
He tangles his own fingers together, and D’Artagnan sighs. “I’ll keep out of your way at the hotel,” he offers, to put an end to Athos’ misery. “If that’ll help.”
Athos’ head jerks up, and he stares at D’Artagnan. “Why the hell would I want you to do that?”
“What?”
“What?” Athos echoes. “D’Artagnan, I’m trying to figure out how to ask you on a date, not get you to leave me alone for the rest of my life.”
“What?”
Athos is blushing, again, and he goes back to his nervous fidgeting with the saltshaker and coffee cup. “D’Artagnan, please believe me when I say that I am really, really bad at this kind of thing. I am so monumentally bad at this kind of thing, that when I tried to tell you that I wanted to date you, just now, you thought I was trying to tell you to fuck off.”
Athos opens his mouth and draws a breath to continue, and D’Artagnan decides to spare him, sliding forward on the stool he’s perched on until he’s half in Athos’ lap, and kisses him as vigorously as he can manage.
Athos’ mouth is warm, and he tastes like coffee, and D’Artagnan winds his hands into Athos’ hair, fully planning to not let go until one of them needed to breathe.
Distantly, he can hear Aramis wolf whistling, and Serge ringing that tiny bell that signals an order is up, but Athos’ mouth is curling into a smile beneath his, and there are more important things to focus on.