Chapter Text
5:00am, and summer is over. Athos hauls himself out of bed and into the bathroom, and goes about his routine. When he gets back to the bedroom he has a text waiting. It’s from Aramis, to him and Porthos, and it’s nothing more than a picture of a fluffy kitten snuggled face-first in bed.
Thanks, Athos replies.
He’s nearly done his oatmeal and coffee (mug: Miranda Padilla, 2013) when Aramis texts again, asking if Porthos is awake.
No, comes the reply, a few minutes later. Aramis sends a grinning sun, a party hat, and an apple.
Athos checks the time; it’s nearly 5:45. Although Porthos would not prefer to be awake yet, he has the longest drive of all of them, so Athos certainly hopes he’s out of the shower by now at least.
It’s still too hot for a sweater, at least it will be in the building. Athos begrudgingly puts on a t-shirt instead, choosing the one signed on the back by all his students on the last day of school last year. For a few years now he’s only taught seniors, so none of these kids will be there. Still it’s a comforting reminder that, no matter what faces he will see in his room when classes start tomorrow, come June he’ll miss each and every one of them.
Well, 85% of them.
He’s on the road by 6:30, pulling into the parking lot at 6:38; his isn’t the first car, but there’s only four others. It takes three trips to unload all he’s bought. It’s been two months since he was in the building, but nothing much has changed; the floors are still a freckled sandy color, the lockers still a rust-hiding shade of red. His classroom is still an uneven white (so much for the promised re-paint).
But the building smells today the way it only smells on the first day: like itself, not like the humans who will inhabit it these next ten months. It’s hot and musty, and lemony from the custodians’ mops.
Athos has been at this long enough that one year tends to blend seamlessly with the next, long enough that all delusions of grandeur or influence have long since fled. Still he takes a moment to enjoy the oddly welcoming scent.
He works to arrange the desks and dust the bookshelves and windowsills, until outside in the hallway he sees the trickle of colleagues begin, and slowly swell. Before long his phone vibrates.
We’re in the caf, Aramis has texted. Got us coffee.
Athos wipes his face on the collar of his t-shirt, grabs his laptop bag, and heads for the cafeteria.
The halls are bustling now, though not as much as they will be tomorrow. Athos filters through the stream of colleagues, nodding to all, kissing the cheeks of a few he has genuinely missed.
Maybe half the staff have gathered in the cafeteria already. Athos realizes with a moment of surprise that it’s already nearly 8:00am; the faculty meeting begins at 8:15. Time flies, classroom cleaning.
He finds Aramis and Porthos not far from the front, where they have a good view of the PowerPoint crookedly projected on one wall. The three of them were just at the lake together two weeks ago. Still, seeing them here has an oddly puerile, first-day-of-school effect, and he thinks, a bit emotionally, of how he’s missed them.
Aramis, as promised, has coffee. Athos sees that his is iced and accepts it gratefully, pressing the water-beaded side to one cheek before taking a long drink.
Porthos, who will be shit until at least halfway through his own (hot) coffee, blinks up at him and groans. “What’s the count?” he burbles.
“One-eighty-two,” Aramis supplies. “Wake-ups: one-eighty-one.”
It’s a show, a script; if everyone in the building were ranked in the order of how many shits they gave, Porthos would come in first and Aramis would be top-five. They do not actually count days until May.
Athos himself would rank-- well, in the upper half, definitely, but nearer the bottom; sixtieth percentile, maybe, or sixty-fifth. His countdown begins whenever spring break ends.
There are teachers who do begin their countdown on the first day, but Athos avoids them; there are also teachers who insist they never count down, but Athos avoids them too.
The room is arranged mostly by department, but not entirely. Athos has already greeted his fellow history teachers in the hallway-- Janet Wallace excepted, and hopefully enjoying the first real day of her retirement-- and most vehemently does not feel some kind of humanities turncoat for sitting with two STEM teachers. Well, mostly not.
“Not many new faces,” Aramis remarks, as he scans the room as well. “That’s good, I guess. So much smoother when we all know what’s going on.”
“The pull-out math teacher’s new, but she was at the middle school,” Porthos adds, stifling a yawn. “Met her at PD.”
“Oh yeah. The optional PD that you actually went to. How was it?”
Porthos shrugs. When the caffeine takes hold of his bloodstream he’ll come alive, and Athos is sure they’ll hear about the PD then. For now he keeps hunting out new faces, idly curious.
There’s a woman he doesn’t recognize sitting with the rest of the math department; this will be Porthos’ new special ed teacher, then. She’s youngish, but not overly-- 27 or 28 at the very least. There seems to be a new gym teacher too, and Athos remembers that Bob Pokorny retired last June as well. But this guy is in his forties.
There’s only one faculty member, in fact, who looks totally new to the profession: a very tall, very fidgety young man who’s loitering awkwardly at the back as though he can’t decide who to sit with. Although faculty-only days are always casual dress, somebody has neglected to inform him. He’s wearing a wine red dress shirt and tight grey trousers, with a black and grey striped tie, and Athos feels a little bad for him, if only because it’s barely 8:00am and he already has pit stains.
Most of the veteran teachers are wearing sweatpants or workout clothes. Somebody should really take this kid aside, Athos thinks, and explain to him two very important things: what short sleeves are, and the related point that, had he wanted to work in a building with air conditioning, he should have interviewed with a different district.
Then there’s a noise from the microphone. Athos turns and smiles at the principal, who has tapped to get their attention but will now speak without any assistance, and still be heard clearly by those at the back.
“Good morning, everyone,” Treville calls, and receives a chorus of good morning’s in turn. Never one to prattle on, he continues, “I hope you all had relaxing summers. You’re eager to work on your classrooms, I know, so let’s begin.”
The PowerPoint is nearly identical to last year’s-- which was nearly identical to the previous year’s. It would be an interesting experiment, Athos thinks, to see them all back to back, staring from 1999’s. This is his seventeenth First Day PowerPoint, and surely there have been changes along the way, even if he doesn’t note them from year to year. At the very least he’d be able to witness the evolution of slide transition technology.
There’s the general information about the school for the new teachers; also the phone extensions have changed, Treville notes, and Athos prepares himself for the minor chaos of this. Beyond that it’s the usual pep combined with the usual doom and gloom, all abridged to suit Treville’s taciturn style.
Athos smirks to himself a few times as he mentally ticks off squares on the “First Faculty Meeting of the Year Bingo” board that Don Bowden shared on Facebook.
Critical thinking-- check.
Assessment-- check.
Financial stats longer than one minute-- check.
Room is so hot you might die-- check.
Fun facts about the incoming freshmen that make you feel old-- check. Big check. Not a single one of them will have been born in the last millennium, Athos realizes.
But Treville doesn’t keep them long, which they all appreciate. The district is a bit of a sinking ship that can’t be allowed to sink, but Treville is a good leader and a thankfully unpolitical principal, and he has the respect of his faculty.
Porthos is alive by the time the meeting ends. He and Aramis are planning, as they usually do, to collaborate on cleaning both of their classrooms. Athos doesn’t really understand the time advantage of this. Any benefit is surely outweighed by the amount of time they will lose to distracting each other, but it seems to make them happy. Athos prefers to set his room up alone. They’ll all see each other for lunch, though, of course-- he’s hoping he can talk them into Peruvian food-- besides which he’s sure they’ll wander in and out a few times, though their classrooms are in the junior wing.
Athos is about to mention Peruvian when Treville swings by. “Captain,” they greet him, and he smiles, overly fond of the nickname.
“Gentlemen. Good summer? Never long enough, I know. Athos, quick question. Is your mentoring paperwork still together from last year?”
Though Athos is looking at Treville, he feels Porthos and Aramis grin beside him. He is, apparently, a highly rated mentor teacher. Despite this he has never quite brought himself to enjoy the role, typically using up all his limited social energy on his students-- and his friends, of course.
“It is,” he replies.
“Good. I’ve got a mentee for you, then.” Treville looks over his shoulder and gestures to someone; it’s the pit-stained kid from before, Athos sees, and realizes that he must be Janet’s replacement.
He is very visibly fresh out of the college. Joy.
“This is Charles d’Artagnan,” Treville introduces, as the kid comes to stand at his side. “He’ll be taking over World History, and-- one section of US I, is that right?”
“Mm-hm,” Charles d’Artagnan agrees.
“This is Athos LaFere. He’s a damn fine history teacher and a damn fine teacher all around. He’s taught World and US I, though these past few years he’s been doing AP and electives with the upperclassmen.”
“Hi, um, it’s good to meet you, Mister LaFere,” d’Artagnan says, enthusiastically, reaching out to pump Athos’ hand. All else aside, he does have a good grip.
“And these are LaFere’s second and third halves,” Treville notes.
“Aramis d’Herblay,” Aramis says, holding his hand out. “Biology.”
“DuVallon. Porthos,” Porthos says, when his turn comes. “Pre-calc and calc.”
“Hi, it’s good to meet you all. Yeah, thanks for mentoring me. So, um, how long have you been teaching?”
It’s not his best moment, and not a moment he’ll be proud of later, but Athos just raises an eyebrow. “Ages.”
“Ignore him,” Aramis cuts in, thankfully before d’Artagnan can flee. “Thirty-eight is looming large and you make him feel old.”
“An’ he’s a don’t smile ‘til Thanksgiving kind of teacher,” Porthos adds. “He warms up before long. Cries like a baby every graduation.”
“Right.” D’Artagnan still looks a little flustered. “Okay, so, today we just-- have to set up our classrooms, right?”
“Mm-hm,” Aramis agrees. “Have you found yours yet?”
“Yeah. I visited last week. I’m in, um, A-wing?”
“Freshmen,” Porthos supplies. “Makes sense, considerin’. You’ve had the grand tour, then?”
D’Artagnan shakes his head.
Aramis snorts. “The general rule is here is that they don’t bother with new teacher orientation if there’s less than five for the year. Come on. We’ll show you around. Athos? Are you going to go be grumpy in your classroom, or come with us?”
He’s still feeling pretty shitty about the ages comment. “I’ll come.”
D’Artagnan looks unaccountably happy about that.
“Well, this is the caf,” Aramis begins, gesturing expansively, then proceeds to lead their group around the rest of the central area, pointing out the main office, Treville’s office, the faculty room, and the auditorium. Then they go down the junior wing. Aramis shows off his classroom, his lab, and Porthos’ classroom, then the junior/senior gymnasium; they return to the central area via the senior wing, and see Athos’ room.
“If you ever need us and can’t find us, we’re probably there,” Aramis notes. “Oh, faculty bathroom, important. It’s in the same place in every wing.” They head back towards the freshmen/sophomore side.
“Cool,” d’Artagnan murmurs. “Yeah. Thanks. So, like, any advice?”
Despite how utterly welcoming Aramis and Porthos have been, this question is still directed at Athos. Athos tries not to sigh.
“Set your Facebook to private and keep your phone on silent. Don’t eat from the caf. And buy some gel inserts.”
“Don’t drink too much water if you’re more than an hour away from prep or lunch,” Aramis warns.
“Don’t grade in red,” Porthos adds. “It’s more stressful, for everyone. Oh, and get some bay leaves, put ‘em in your desk and closets. They keep away roaches.”
D’Artagnan nods, absorbing all this, and seems a little startled when they reach his classroom.
“Let’s do phone numbers,” Aramis suggests, before they part ways. “You’re not supposed to have your phone out, but nobody really cares. If you need something, you can always text us.”
They all exchange numbers. Athos does not recognize d’Artagnan’s area code, but then again he is not one to commit numbers instantly to memory, such as, say, Porthos.
“Thanks again,” d’Artagnan babbles. “I’ll, like, see you all around, then?”
They promise that they will, then leave him be.
Safely back in Athos’ classroom, they recap and discuss the morning’s events. D’Artagnan’s arrival is, of course, the main topic.
“I’m-- a little worried they’ll eat him alive,” Porthos mourns. “Yeah? You think?”
“I’m more worried they’ll be wanting to eat something else,” Aramis snorts, with an obscene gesture to illustrate his point. “The boy is pretty, and the freshmen are thirsty.”
It’s true: d’Artagnan is very pretty, and Athos wonders for a moment if Aramis feels encroached upon. There’s only room for one long-haired, black-eyed, deadly-cheekboned, Latino (is d’Artagnan Latino?) teacher in this school, and Aramis has already filled the role. And the kid is tall, too. If Aramis has any saving grace it’s that he’s 5’8” on a good day; meanwhile this d’Artagnan is nearly as tall as Porthos.
There will be new graffiti in the locker rooms, soon.
Athos kicks the two of them out soon, and the rest of the day goes quickly. Aramis and Porthos consent to Peruvian food for lunch. Athos gets his classroom ship-shape, puts up his usual posters, covers the bulletin boards with butcher paper, makes some copies, and prints his name on the board. He finishes around 4:00pm and, with a text to the others, heads home.
*
5:00am, and Athos hasn’t slept well. He never does, on the night before the kids start. It isn’t that he’s nervous, not anymore, but still his brain is definitely moving double-time. He brews enough for two cups of coffee this morning (mug: Yosi Pimentel, 2005).
There’s no particular reason that he, Porthos, and Aramis wear green on the first day. They just always do. Athos selects a pair of khaki trousers and a mint green dress shirt, and decides to fuck it all and not wear a tie.
They assemble around 7:45am in Athos’ room, as always. Athos sits at his desk, Aramis in the student chair beside, and Porthos perched on the edge of a student desk in the last row, and it’s like the summer never happened. For a moment only the splashes of green say first day. (Aramis is wearing a forest green dress shirt and a grey necktie with black trees on it; Porthos is wearing black trousers, a white dress shirt, and a bright green bowtie.)
Then Porthos takes the bowtie off and refastens it, and it’s the first day again. Though he’s hardly new, Porthos always gets a little antsy right before meeting the kids, and Aramis smiles fondly as he fixes his collar repeatedly.
Athos wonders, quite suddenly, how d’Artagnan is holding up.
He doesn’t have to wonder long; he gets his answer a few minutes later, and the answer is not well. There’s a knock on the door. Then d’Artagnan barges in, looking pale and sweaty and really rather nauseous, and gapes at them all for a moment.
“Sorry,” he gasps. “I figured-- I’d just say good morning--”
“You look like shit,” Porthos informs him. “You all right?”
“Yeah. No, I’m fine. Just, like, a little nervous, I guess.”
Aramis chuckles, goes to d’Artagnan’s side, and swoops him into a gentle hug. D’Artagnan latches onto him, hugs back tightly. “You’ll be fine,” Aramis lulls. “You’ll be great.”
When Aramis lets go, d’Artagnan still looks dangerously close to tears-- but he no longer looks quite as close to dashing down the hallway and losing his breakfast in the faculty bathroom.
“You said you’ve got lunch at 12:05, right?” Porthos prompts. “I do too. Four hours from now an’ you’ll be sittin’ down, tellin’ me about your first classes.” Now he goes over to d’Artagnan too, and pats him on the shoulder. “Breathe, all right? First day of your first year sucks, but it only happens once.”
“Yeah,” d’Artagnan huffs. “Okay. Sorry, I know I interrupted.”
“It’s fine,” Aramis soothes. “We’ve all been there. Like Porthos said, it only happens once.”
“Yeah. You’re right.” D’Artagnan nods, a little too rapidly. “I’m gonna-- I think I’ll go back to my classroom. In case anybody’s early. I didn’t expect to have a homeroom. Not that I mind!”
Aramis and Porthos meet each other’s eyes, then Porthos turns and looks at Athos; he’s trying hard not to smile too widely.
“12:05,” he repeats. “You’re gonna be fine.”
*
D’Artagnan survives. At least Athos assumes as much, because he doesn’t see him again that day. He and Aramis are both sleepy and a little quiet at lunch. They miss Porthos, used to the previous year’s schedule in which they all had lunch together, but by last period Athos is too wired to go out for happy hour as Aramis suggests. Instead he goes home and drinks a bottle of wine on the couch.
He drinks too much. He knows that; planned on dealing with it when he turned thirty, but is now aiming for forty. It’s not a problem, or anything. Just a little disconcerting at times to realize how many shots of whiskey he needs to knock back now to get any sort of buzz at all.
His job is stressful, is all. It’s surely not the most stressful profession there is, but Athos suspects it’s top-ten-- and it’s certainly the one that everybody forgets about. Suddenly he’s worried for d’Artagnan again. He digs in the couch cushions for his phone and sends a cursory text, asking the kid about his day.
What he receives back is a veritable missive. As skittish and timid as he seemed this morning is as jubilant and eager as he seems now, and Athos gets a few paragraphs in a row detailing students that d’Artagnan already adores and the success of his various icebreaker games.
Athos wishes he had made this a group text. Aramis and Porthos should be seeing this too.
Determined to be friendlier, and feeling warm from the wine in any case, Athos engages with d’Artagnan for the next twenty or so minutes, prompting for more information and relating, when asked, his own first day.
At some point during this he remembers that he has actual, contractual obligations to the kid.
I understand that the first week is crazy, Athos writes. Let’s meet next Monday morning to work out the mentoring schedule.
Okay! d’Artagnan replies, immediately. But then the conversation ends.
It’s nearly 9:00pm now, and Athos feels his eyes getting heavier; he shuffles to his bedroom, but sends one last text before he puts his phone on the charger.
To Porthos and Aramis: he’s not a kid, he’s a puppy.
In the morning he wakes up to three puppy pictures from Aramis, and typed-out laughter from Porthos.
*
The first week goes fairly quickly. Athos has taught each of his classes multiple times already, and the material is familiar and comfortable; likewise he recognizes some of the students from the halls, or from Porthos’ and Aramis’ debate team.
This is mostly what teaching is by now. He’s over the drama and the politics; has turned down Treville’s request that he get his admin cert so many times that the man finally stopped asking. Even the day-to-day stuff doesn’t faze Athos much anymore. He’s not sure if it’s some sort of Zen thing, or a fact of growing older-- or if maybe he’s mildly depressed. If he’s being honest with himself, that is a possibility.
Friday afternoon rolls around nicely, and they assemble as usual in Athos’ room; Aramis begins at once to push for happy hour, but Porthos does not chime in with his typical enthusiasm. In fact, upon further examination, he looks a little pissed.
“Everything all right?” Athos prompts.
“Hm? Oh, yeah. Just the honeymoon’s shorter than usual, this year.”
Athos frowns. The behavioral honeymoon is one of the best things about September: new to their teachers and still fresh from summer, the kids tend to behave pretty well for the first few weeks.
“What did they do?”
“Nothin’ terrible. Here,” Porthos says, reaching into his computer bag and passing over a torn-out sheet of notebook paper.
It’s hardly a flattering portrait. Porthos is shaped more than a blimp than a human, gigantic flabby belly bursting out from under his shirt. His eyes are pinpricks, mouth a slit. His bottom has been rendering poking out sideways though the rest is head on, and his hands are meaty blobs, holding a marker and a paper marked F.
Porthos shrugs. “Not a bad likeness.”
“Which asshole drew that?”
“Angel. Friday afternoon boost to the self-esteem.”
“He’s an asshole.”
“What, for drawin’ me how I look?”
They’ve been friends for years, but Athos never quite knows how to react when Porthos mentions his weight. Aramis and Athos himself are much slimmer, it’s true. Aramis has a temperamental stomach-- the adventures of which he will expound upon to anyone-- and because of this he (mostly) eats quite modestly. Athos simply has never been one to put on weight. Since thirty-three or thirty-four he’s acquired a humble pooch to his lower belly that shows a little if his waistband is too tight. But besides that he’s just built slender.
But Porthos is fat (it’s Porthos himself who eventually convinced Athos to suck it up and use the F-word) and it’s a direct result of how much he loves food. And he does love food. And Athos and Aramis love how much he loves food, because it’s just part of loving him, but that doesn’t mean that Athos knows how to reply to statements like this.
Aramis, on the other hand, just smiles. “You usually manage to keep your shirt buttoned, though. My chubby bunny,” he adds, fondly, as though this makes perfect sense. To Porthos, it seems to. He grins, a little helplessly, as Aramis plucks the drawing from his hands, balls it up, and tosses it into the trashcan.
“They don’t dislike you,” Athos adds, quietly. “Just math. They’re nicer to humanities teachers.”
“Oh yeah? Anybody worked out LaFairy yet?”
Athos pulls a face. “No. But I have every confidence that they will.”
Porthos cheers right up after that, and he and Aramis convince Athos to join them for happy hour. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to, really. Only he’s sleepy, out of social energy, and besides this sometimes feels like he is intruding on a date, even though Porthos and Aramis are decidedly not a couple.
Porthos is, however, in love with Aramis. Aramis is oblivious-- at times Athos even thinks that Porthos might be oblivious, too-- but everybody else is well aware.
There’s always at least one candid of them in the yearbook. Last year it was a snapshot in the hallway, Aramis bridal-style in Porthos’ arms, his own arms flung up in a celebratory pose. The year before that it was them in full Christmas garb, antlers and all. The year before that it was Aramis passed out on Porthos’ shoulder, in a Dramamine-induced coma on the bus to DC for junior trip. This is Athos’ favorite. It’s clearly being taken over the back of the next bus seat; Aramis’ lips are parted slightly, hair coming out of its bun, cheek smushed against Porthos’ shoulder. Porthos is smirking at the camera, but his eyes are soft and fond. When the yearbook came out that year and they looked at it together, Aramis had leaned in and whispered, tenderly,
“I came really fucking close to throwing up in your lap that day.”
Whether or not Aramis is in love with Porthos, Athos does not know.
*
5:00am, on Monday of the first real week, and Athos moves through his routine a little faster than usual. He and d’Artagnan are supposed to meet at 7:00 to discuss their schedule.
He gets to school at 6:37, the first car in the lot this time, and makes one set of copies before heading to his classroom to meet d’Artagnan. At 6:55, the kid arrives.
Athos hasn’t seen more than a glimpse of him since last Tuesday, but he looks like everyone tends to look their first year: bright-eyed yet harried, like he probably has only been allowing himself five-minute showers in order to save more time for prep.
“Hey, Mister LaFere,” he greets, cheerily. “Is this, like, still an okay time?”
Athos nods, and gestures for him to sit; he takes Aramis’ customary chair, and pulls it a little forward.
“How was your first week?” Athos asks. He smiles, and d’Artagnan grins back.
“It was great! It was great but I’m, like, completely exhausted. The kids are great! I haven’t had, like, any problems with them.”
Perhaps now is a good time to tell him about the honeymoon, but Athos can’t bring himself to. Instead he listens for another few minutes, before pulling out his planner.
“Do you have your schedule?” he asks, and d’Artagnan provides it immediately. Athos lays it side-by-side with his own and thinks a moment about how best to handle this.
“In the past, I’ve visited my mentee’s classroom once a week,” Athos begins, “at least for the first marking period. I know prep time is precious, so I’ll only ask you to sit in on one of my classes every two or three weeks. We should meet briefly every week, though, in addition to my visits. Just to recap. Do you have any questions, about any of that?”
“Nope. Sounds good!”
“All right, then. The kids are best behaved on Wednesdays, I’d say. Shall I visit you then?”
“Yeah, sure!”
“My prep is second period. So we’ll say I’ll sit in on your World History class every Wednesday then. And if you ever want me to see any other specific lesson, just give me a few days’ notice and I’ll try to work it out.”
They plan out, too, that d’Artagnan will visit Athos alternate Friday afternoons, and on all Fridays they’ll meet briefly, to recap the week. D’Artagnan agrees, enthusiastically, to everything. He picks Athos mind for a few minutes while Athos gets some paperwork together, then while they’re still talking, Porthos wanders in.
“Mornin’, Athos,” he greets, blearily. “Mornin’, pup.”
It’s Athos’ first time hearing the nickname, but it must be an established fact between the two of them already, because d’Artagnan beams.
“Hey, Porthos!”
Porthos ruffles d’Artagnan’s hair as he goes to the last row of desks and perches atop one.
“Oh, um, Mister LaFere,” d’Artagnan begins, shuffling through an accordion folder. “I wanted to ask you-- should I like, pay you at the beginning of the year? Or the end? How does that work?”
Athos winces. This is, perhaps, the most awkward aspect of being a first year mentor: the fact that one’s mentee is expected to pay them-- and not even through something anonymous handled by the payroll, but by a literal, hefty check handed from one person to the other.
“You don’t,” Athos replies, shortly.
“I don’t what?”
“You don’t pay me,” Athos elaborates, hoping that d’Artagnan will politely acquiesce; of course, he does not.
“The contract says--”
“I know what the contract says. It’s awkward and unnecessary. I’m sixteen years above you on the pay scale; besides which, we are, hypothetically, a team here, though many forget this. I agreed to mentor you because it is in the best interest of our students for you to become a great teacher.”
D’Artagnan doesn’t seem to know what to say.
“My mentor didn’t take my money,” Porthos adds, joining the conversation smoothly. “So I made her lunch a lot.”
Lunch from Porthos, though, means something-- means spinach quiche or pineapple fried rice or chicken risotto. D’Artagnan looks like he lives off of Hot Pockets.
“Really,” Athos says. “Mentor fees are embarrassing for everyone.”
“My mentor took my money!” Aramis adds, brightly, as he traipses in. His eyes fall on d’Artagnan, in his typical chair, but rather than comment he goes and leans up against Porthos.
“I’ll be a lot of work,” d’Artagnan says, looking down, not quite ready to let it drop. “I’m alt route. I know I’ve got a lot to learn.”
Oh. Suddenly his utter terror on the first day makes more sense; if he is still working towards his teaching cert, it’s possible he never even student taught.
“We were all alt route, ‘cept Athos,” Porthos assures him. “It’s not so bad. My degree’s in engineering. Did it through ROTC, so that was military time too. Then a nice cushy engineering job. But it didn’t feel enough like givin’ back, y’know? So I bit my lip, took the pay cut, an’ here I am. Aramis wandered a bit, too.”
“Two years of med school,” Aramis supplies. “Then my first week in a real hospital, a patient dies in my arms. So, as one does, I panicked and joined the seminary. Then I left the seminary and became a teacher.” He shrugs.
Athos glances at d’Artagnan, wondering if he feels similarly dull right now. He himself went to school for history and education, graduated with degrees in history and education, and thanks to his September birthday was still twenty-one the first day he walked into a room full of seventeen-year-olds, supposedly an authority figure. That was sixteen years ago. He’s only a few years older than Porthos and Aramis, but he’s been at this particular grind a lot longer. In a way it’s all he knows.
“What did you study?” Aramis asks d’Artagnan. “History?”
“Yeah, um, history and French lit,” d’Artagnan replies. “Minors in creative writing and anthropology.”
“That must’ve been a heavy course load.”
“I took five years.” D’Artagnan shrugs, not liking the implied compliment. It’s true, though, that all of this is making him a little more interesting in Athos’ eyes. He feels even duller, now.
“So are you, what, twenty-three, then?”
D’Artagnan nods.
“Well, I was twenty-five my first year. Porthos was twenty-seven. You’ve got a head start on both of us!”
D’Artagnan has been relaxing by degrees until, all at once, he looks calm. A few minutes later he heads to his classroom.
Aramis reclaims his chair, while Porthos frowns out the door, visibly meditating on things. “He definitely thought he was payin’ you to be his friend,” he notes, a little sadly.
“Well, then he feels better now,” Aramis replies.
“I hate mentoring,” Athos sighs, and the sigh isn’t even finished yet before Porthos calls him a liar.
*
On Wednesday, Athos observes d’Artagnan for the first time. He’s helping the kids analyze the differences between Middle Ages and Renaissance art in Europe, to a depth that is maybe just a little ambitious, but he’s holding their attention. It’s really too early to call this representative, though.
Wednesday is also Back to School Night, and classes end at 1:15pm so that the teachers do not overstay their contracted amount of hours when they return from 5:00pm to 7:00 that night. (As though they never work beyond contracted hours anyway-- ha.)
Athos and Aramis live close enough to drive home for the gap, but Porthos doesn’t really, and so they all tend to stick around. They get lunch, usually, then do some work in the building.
Athos’ suggestion of Peruvian is downvoted this time, and they agree on pizza, a reliable if slightly predictable option. They’re gathering their bags as Porthos suggests, “let’s invite the pup.”
Nobody has any objections-- besides the obvious, that d’Artagnan is weirdly intimidated by Athos, who doesn’t like to feel intimidating-- and Porthos texts him. A few minutes later he arrives, looking honored.
They head for the parking lot, to Aramis’ car. If Athos’ classroom is their natural point of congregation, then Aramis’ car is their natural mode of transportation.
Aramis sort of drives a minivan. Sort of, meaning he absolutely drives a minivan; bought it a few years ago when he and Porthos started the debate team, to ferry around their then-four students. They’re funded now, can afford to hire busses. The team’s grown to nearly two dozen students as well-- but Aramis still loves his minivan. They all do. Even though Porthos could technically drive-- Athos can’t, because Porthos doesn’t comfortably fit in the backseat and Aramis gets carsick there-- Aramis just always does.
Athos sits in the middle with d’Artagnan. Aramis drives them the short distance to the pizzeria (Rosa’s, the good one) and expertly parallel parks his mammoth vehicle. They find a table, waving at a few other teachers they see, and begin to pour over the menu.
Athos and Porthos get two slices each of the ricotta pizza, and Porthos gets a bowl of faggioli soup besides; Aramis gets a chicken parm sandwich. D’Artagnan gets one plain slice and a ginger ale. It’s the kind of thing Aramis would order on a bad stomach day, and Athos wonders if this is a normal meal for d’Artagnan or not.
Apparently it’s not, because Porthos raises an eyebrow, waits for the server to leave, then whispers, “nervous for tonight?”
D’Artagnan nods, going a little pale. Athos bites back a wince of sympathy; one of his clearest memories from his first year is of vomiting black coffee and onion bagel in the faculty bathroom ten minutes before Back to School Night. Nerves can be fucking stupid sometimes.
“Oh, Back to School Night,” Aramis groans. “Though I suppose not getting home until 7:30 would mean more if I had, you know, somebody waiting for me.” Porthos grunts in agreement.
None of them have anybody waiting for them at the moment, Aramis having broken up with his latest love interest over the summer. And all told, teaching is not a bad profession for a lifelong bachelor. Plenty of teachers have families, sure, but plenty are single into their thirties and forties-- or their whole lives. It makes Athos feel slightly less pathetic, at any rate.
“Oh. I guess I should text my roommates,” d’Artagnan mutters, and pulls out his phone to do so. “Not that they’d worry or anything. Just so they know.”
“You’ve got roommates?” Porthos asks.
“Yeah. Um, one of them works at a video game store and the other is, like, a flight attendant, so he’s not around much.”
These sound like descriptions of roommates, not friends, and Athos wonders at this for a moment. D’Artagnan doesn’t seem to have much in the way of friends. That doesn’t add up: he’s amenable, not overly shy or awkward, and he’s good-looking, which has got to help.
“You know them from school?”
“Mm? No, the internet. I-- I never mentioned? I’m from California. I went to school on the west coast. I don’t-- really know anybody here.”
“Then how’d you end up here?” Aramis snorts, gesturing around the less-than-glamorous pizzeria.
D’Artagnan shrugs. “I wanted to move. This was the first place that gave me an offer. Interviewed over Skype.”
“So you just up and moved?”
“I don’t-- I mean, like, I don’t really have any family, so-- I figured, change of scenery. I almost moved to France. Um, my parents were from France, and I’m, like, bilingual. But that’s a lot of paperwork and stuff, and I would’ve needed a different teaching cert, so-- yeah. Here I am.”
Athos looks at Aramis, who is looking at Porthos; then they both look at Athos. And this is the moment they adopt d’Artagnan.
“Ma mère était française, aussi,” Athos says, quietly. D’Artagnan startles, then grins.
*
5:00am on Thursday arrives, and Athos is thirty-eight. He allows himself a tiny whimper, burrows back under the blankets, and stays there until Aramis texts five minutes later. It’s a party hat, a present, and a glass of wine.
Happy birthday, Athos!!! Porthos adds a few minutes later, followed by a notification from Facebook that tells him Porthos has just posted on his timeline as well. (Porthos is 90% of the reason he has a Facebook.)
He showers a little longer than usual, then looks at the smattering of birthday posts from other colleagues while he drinks his coffee (mug: Jasmin Vargas, 2005, a Happy Birthday mug, though she gave it to him for Christmas). The weather has given him an unexpected gift, as well. The forecast is chilly, not going above sixty all day, so he puts on loose slacks and his favorite sweater, feeling cozy and marginally more cheerful.
He’s grading at his desk when the door bangs open. Aramis kisses him loudly on the tip of his nose; Porthos hugs him, then sets before him a Tupperware of something which smells eggy and bacony and divine. He foists a gift bag at him too. It ends up containing a Smart Board remote and a box of expensive-looking truffles. Aramis’ gift is in his car, which must mean it’s alcohol.
Athos accepts a plastic fork and eats his second breakfast, which tastes even better than it smells. He’s still eating when d’Artagnan wanders in.
“Hey, everyone. Oh wow, Porthos, you’re catering breakfasts now?”
Porthos cackles. “He didn’t mention it, did he? We should’ve thought to. It’s Athos birthday!”
“Oh wow!” d’Artagnan enthuses. “Happy birthday, Mister LaFere! Um, I’m sorry I didn’t know!”
“They’re a good deal less exciting once the first number is a three,” Athos replies, with a shrug. “Not sure what I’ll do once it’s a four. Take a sick day and enough Ambien to sleep through it all, probably.”
D’Artagnan opens his mouth, but closes it again before saying anything. Porthos hops off the desk, comes around to Athos’ side, and hugs him again, tighter this time. “Eat your breakfast,” he scolds. “Senior discount of free.”
Once he’s been down to the office to check his mailbox, everybody who is going to remember has already wished him a happy birthday, and the rest of the day mostly proceeds as usual. At lunch Aramis gives him a Tupperware of dark chocolate pistachio cake, courtesy of Porthos. But everything else is normal-- until the end of last period, at least, when a knock interrupts his lecture on new nationalism.
Athos isn’t quite sure what happens next. Truth be told the noise is a bit overwhelming, especially when the class joins in, and when he comes to his sense a minute later, there are three sets of arms hugging him from various directions.
“Maria!” he cries. “Brianna-- Madison!”
“Hey, Mister LaFere,” they chorus, then: “happy birthday!”
“He didn’t tell us!” one of his current students shouts.
Madison lets go, but Maria and Brianna keep hugging him-- which is good, because he feels a little lightheaded. “He’s not gonna tell you, so you’ve gotta remember!” Madison shouts to the class. “Mister LaFere is the best teacher ever, and you guys have to be really nice to him!”
The class finds this all a little hokey-- until it’s revealed that the girls have brought munchkins for all of them. Then they sit, happy for the snack and the distraction. Before long Athos collapses into his desk chair, eating his doughnut (he’s received a full-sized one) and listening happily to his former students telling him about their first month in college.
There are districts where college is pretty much a guarantee, but this isn’t one of them. Athos is overjoyed to hear how well they’re all doing, and feels himself blush a little when Brianna announces that she’s thinking about majoring in history. Then they produce a box that he somehow hadn’t noticed before. The whole room watches as he opens it carefully to find a blue and brown striped sweater, just the kind he’d have bought himself; then he blushes the rest of the way.
The girls don’t stay long. Around 2:50 they depart with final hugs, and waves to the current students, and Athos sits back in his chair, feeling overjoyed and overwhelmed and more than a little verklempt. Theodore Roosevelt seems abstract and unnecessary, for the moment. He gives the kids their homework assignment, and allows them the last ten minutes to start in on it.
The next day, Athos wears his new sweater, and d’Artagnan visits on AP US II. He still sits in a desk like a student, slouching naturally into its planes; without the shiny belt and shoes, the tie, and the lanyard around his neck, he could blend into the class quite easily. He even seems to be following the lecture. This is not the point, of course; he’s not there to learn about early 20th century progressivism, but to learn how to teach about it. It’s endearing nevertheless.
That afternoon they have their first Friday meeting; Athos suggests some strategies that d’Artagnan might consider, and d’Artagnan asks twenty minutes’ worth of questions about lesson planning and pacing. Then he heads home, and Athos goes to happy hour with Porthos and Aramis.
It’s a pretty good week, all things considered.
*
The second week of October is warm, and Athos begrudgingly goes back to wearing dress shirts for a while. Because of his love for sweaters, many assume he’s always cold, but that isn’t true. He just really loves sweaters, and has long since gotten over his fear of accidentally wearing an ugly one. But he overheats, like anyone else, and it’s back in the seventies now.
He’s even sweating a little in his classroom, grading quizzes on a Tuesday morning, when he hears his door open.
“Hey.”
One word from Porthos is all it takes for Athos’ head to shoot up, already pushing back from his desk. “Porthos, what’s wrong?”
Porthos is crying, making no attempt to hide it; tears are steaming freely down his cheeks.
“Um. A girl I taught, a student from a couple of years ago, she, uh, passed away this weekend.”
“Oh-- oh, Porthos.” Athos pulls him into a tight hug, feels Porthos hug him back, sniffling quietly. “Who? What happened?”
“Amber Williams,” Porthos sighs. “I don’t think you ever had her. She was sick. She was sick when I taught her. Knew it could happen. Just-- she was nineteen.”
Athos rubs his back, not about to let go until Porthos lets go himself. “Are you going to go home?”
“Nah. No. What am I gonna do, sit around an’ think about it?” He breathes in and out, massively, and finally pulls away.
Aramis rushes in then. Porthos takes one look at him and breaks down all over again, and Aramis runs at him and envelopes him in his arms. “I know, querido,” he whispers. “I know.”
Aramis sounds badly shaken himself, and Athos puts his hand on Aramis’ elbow. “You taught her too?”
Aramis nods against Porthos’ shoulder. “She was on the debate team. I know, I know, baby, it fucking-- I know.”
Porthos is weeping helplessly into Aramis’ neck; Athos stands at their side with a hand on each of their backs.
Then the door flings open again. Most of the debate team pours in, and Porthos and Aramis pull apart.
“Guys--” Porthos begins. He gets out that single word only before two of the kids hug him from either side, and he covers his face with one arm, hugging one of the kids with the other, and sobs silently.
Every student there scrambles to hug Porthos. He lowers his arm from his face so he can use both to gather them all to him, two concentric circles of kids around a Porthos midpoint, and everybody just stays that way a while.
Aramis comes over next to Athos. He’s trembling, pretty hard, and Athos takes one look at him and pulls him in for a hug of their own. The kids notice quickly. Half of them break away and come surround Aramis, who lets them, but keeps his face pressed to the crook of Athos’ neck.
Then Porthos wades through the sea of kids. Athos looks up in time to see him wrapping his arms around them both, and they each put an arm around him, hugging as three, Aramis’ face in Athos’ shoulder and Athos’ face in Porthos’ shoulder and Porthos’ face in Athos’ hair.
It’s a long time before they pull away. Then the first bell rings. Porthos and Aramis extricate themselves, both wiping their eyes, and set about the task of hugging each student individually before shipping them off to homeroom. Vanessa, who’s in Athos’ homeroom, collapses in her seat. “Nessie,” Athos calls, quietly, and the girl startles, looks around, and realizes at last that she has none of her books. She gets up to go to her locker, passing by Athos on the way; she glances at him a moment, a little shyly, but that’s all the cue he needs to pull her in for another hug before she scurries off to her locker.
Other kids are filing in. They hush up at once, the way students do when they see something’s going on, but Porthos and Aramis just share one last nod with each other, and Athos, before jogging off to greet their own homeroom classes.
The mood in the school is bleak. Treville says a few words about Amber during morning announcements, then one of the counselors gets on the mic to say that she and the others will take walk-ins all day. Plenty of the juniors and seniors remember Amber. Athos scraps his lesson plans for the day and gives the kids independent work time on their essays, saying nothing when two or three in every class elect to stare off into space instead.
That afternoon Porthos leaves at 3:15, which is far from his usual style. Athos is sitting alone in his classroom when d’Artagnan comes in around 4:00.
“Hey, Mister LaFere.”
All day he’s been feeling a strange combination of sadness and existentialism, and the unbearable desire to be kind. “You don’t have to call me that, you know,” he says, gently. “Athos is fine, or LaFere if you prefer.”
“Oh. Okay.” D’Artagnan doesn’t smile though. “Hey, did you teach the girl who, um, passed away?”
“No. But Porthos and Aramis both did.”
“Oh, wow,” d’Artagnan says, and hugs himself a little.
The wake is Friday. Porthos is remarkably composed, speaking warmly to Amber’s parents, consoling the students and former students he encounters. Porthos is always everyone’s rock.
But he’s also got the biggest, gentlest heart that Athos has ever known, and when they get back to the car he practically collapses into the passenger’s seat. As the car hums to life, he leans back and closes his eyes. Athos perches on the edge of the bench seat behind him, keeping a hand on his shoulder, as Aramis drives them back to Porthos’ apartment.
Once he’s in the door, Porthos glances around like he doesn’t know what to do next. Aramis takes him by the hand and leads him into his bedroom, Athos trailing a few steps behind them.
Aramis takes off Porthos’ jacket. Then he undoes his bow tie, unbuttons his buttons, and slips his shirt off one arm at a time; last he reaches down to do Porthos’ belt and trousers, but Porthos pulls a face and does this himself. After, Porthos stands in his undershirt and boxers, looking grey. Athos goes into the kitchen to make them all coffee, but when he brings it back Porthos is curled up on his bed with his eyes closed, Aramis spooning him and stroking his arm. Athos leaves them be. He hunkers down on Porthos’ couch, with every intention of reading one of Porthos’ books; instead he ends up playing escape room games on his phone, grateful to focus on something inconsequential.
Aramis and Porthos emerge a few hours later. Porthos looks a little better by now--he’s clearly slept, and changed into jeans and a t-shirt-- but Aramis has still got him firmly by one hand.
“Lyin’ there thinkin’ about it’s not what I need to do,” Porthos reflects, quietly. “Who wants to come with me to the store? I’m feelin’ like pasta. With chicken meatballs.”
Though Porthos is feeling better, Aramis still drives them to the store. Porthos marches the aisles, buying onions and garlic and tomatoes, panko and orecchiette and ground chicken, heavy cream and mozzarella and parmesan.
When they get back, Athos and Aramis sit at the table and watch. Even today, Porthos cooks like he teaches, with animation and passion, and otherwise boring things like derivatives and cracking eggs become sort of hypnotic under his influence.
After dinner, Athos hugs Porthos tightly and heads home. He’s fairly sure Aramis stays.
*
Sweater weather returns, and suddenly it’s Halloween. The faculty theme is pirates. Porthos wears ratty clothes, a bandana, a big hoop earring in his pierced ear, with a scar painted over one eye; Aramis wears a billowing white shirt, tight black pants, and an eyepatch, with a parrot Beanie Baby balanced on his shoulder. D’Artagnan wears a Pirates of the Caribbean t-shirt.
Athos ‘forgets’, and ends up with Porthos lending him the bandana and Aramis lending him the parrot. It’s good to see Porthos smiling again, as he wrangles the fabric onto Athos’ head. A few weeks have passed since Amber’s death, and he seems back to normal now, though he’s taken her wallet-size down from his massive bulletin board of senior portraits and given it a place of honor on his desk instead.
Halloween is a cheery day altogether. Treville always takes his role very seriously, whatever it might be, and pirate captain fits him perfectly. Besides this, it marks the beginning of the holiday slipstream. The honeymoon is over and behavior has taken its usual turn for the worst, but November means Veterans Day weekend, followed rapidly by Thanksgiving, then Christmas break. The promise of a week and half off, though nearly two months away, is hugely motivating.
D’Artagnan is feeling the behavioral shift more than any of the rest of them, being new. He’s visibly exhausted, no longer just a little bleary-eyed, and he catches two colds back-to-back in the first half of November.
Then, one Monday morning, he comes in looking terrible. Aramis jumps to his feet as soon as he enters the room.
Aramis is the kind of teacher who genuinely means it when he refers to his hundred and twenty children. His students are his kids. Everyone is kind of Aramis’ kid, even people who are older than he is, which is why he spends at least one lunch period a month lending his shoulder to be cried on, and why he’s the kind of teacher who gets Christmas cards from alumni now out of college.
D’Artagnan melts into this paternal aura. He’s feeling really shitty, Athos can tell; his upper lip is beaded with sweat and his knees look kind of wobbly.
Aramis presses the back of his hand to d’Artagnan’s forehead, then the crook of his neck, then his forehead again. “You’re warm,” he declares. “Go have the nurse take your temperature.”
D’Artagnan hesitates.
“No kids yet. She doesn’t mind; she’s done it for me. Go.”
It seems he doesn’t have the energy to protest any further, because d’Artagnan nods and shuffles out the door.
“Fever?” Athos prompts, when he returns. Aramis and Porthos have gone to their homerooms.
D’Artagnan nods. “It’s, like, low, but--”
“Mm?”
“I’m kind of nauseous,” d’Artagnan admits. “Since last night.”
“Go home.”
“But--”
“Go,” Athos repeats. “Home.”
“I’m already here!”
“Go to Treville and tell him that you didn’t want to call out, you tried to make it, but you can’t.”
“Mister Treville,” d’Artagnan rehearses, visibly preparing himself, “I didn’t want to call out but, um, I’m honestly feeling really sick--”
“The nurse took your temperature--”
“The nurse took my temperature and it’s a hundred-point-nine--”
Athos sighs. “D’Artagnan, that’s not low. And you don’t owe him specifics. You get sick days. Take one.”
D’Artagnan covers his face with one hand, lets his head sink against it, and stays there a minute. “Okay,” he consents. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
Athos thinks about beginning a preemptive argument for a second sick day, but decides against it.
His phone vibrates in the middle of first period. He finishes up the PowerPoint and gets the kids on their first activity before sneaking to the back of the classroom and checking it under his desk. It’s a text from d’Artagnan.
good call, the message reads. puked in the parking lot....
Here? Athos messages back.
no, omg… at my apt. sleeping forever ttyl.
Athos sighs.
“D’Artagnan made it home safe,” he reports to Aramis, at lunch. “If barely. Got sick in his parking lot, he said.”
Aramis wrinkles his nose. “He’s got that stomach thing? It’s going around.”
There is always, according to Aramis, a stomach thing going around. Always. It’s one of the man’s favorite, most fatalistic catchphrases, and it never fails to make Athos feel a momentary jolt of anticipatory queasiness. Aramis has two years of med school under his belt, for godsake. Shouldn’t he be able to talk about disease in a tone that’s a little more clinical, a little less voyeuristic?
Athos just shrugs. Aramis pulls out his phone and sends Porthos an update.
D’Artagnan’s out two days, and still looks a little worse for wear when he gets back Wednesday, though he swears his fever broke Tuesday around lunchtime. “That’s almost twenty-four hours,” he notes, when Aramis glares at him.
Athos takes pity on him and does not observe his class that day; his observations don’t carry any weight, but the kid does not need the added stress. He does, though, catch him before they leave for the day.
“Not tonight,” Athos begins, “but tomorrow, or Friday, when you’re feeling better: I ought to show you how to do report card comments and finalize your grades. The marking period ends next Tuesday.”
“Oh right,” d’Artagnan mumbles, still sounding awful. “Report cards. Maybe we can talk about it when we meet Friday?”
Athos agrees, and fights back the urge to ruffle d’Artagnan’s hair as he turns to go.