Fic: Before the Reveille
It did not take long for Aramis to assess their current situation. On the one hand, they have embroiled themselves into a political conspiracy. On the other hand, d’Artagnan’s transfer to the Musketeers would serve to perpetuate the rumors that they were now in favor with his Eminence. On yet the other other hand… Aramis had run out of hands. He just knew that he needed to have a word and that they were constantly being watched. With that, he tapped Athos on the shoulder.
“I need to talk to you,” he whispered, as his friend opened his eyes from uneasy slumber.
“Talk,” Athos groaned.
“Not here,” Aramis motioned to the body of sleeping Porthos on the other side of the tent. Soft, rhythmic snores were reverberating against the canvas.
“What time is it?” Athos asked, sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“It’s early. So early that you could still say it’s late. Come on, take a walk with me.” Aramis stood up and headed out of the tent. Athos followed him, mechanically. Aramis moved quietly and gracefully, navigating the camp like a panther in the jungle. His eyes scanned the horizon and settled on a destination. “Keep up,” he turned his head around to make sure his friend was still following him. “We’re going out into that field.”
“Is that a good idea?” Athos yawned.
“It’s no worse an idea than breakfast at the Saint-Gervais bastion,” Aramis snapped and continued walking towards what looked like an abandoned and overgrown field of barley. Eventually, the overrun vegetation had hidden them out of sight, or so Aramis had hoped, when he turned around sharply and slapped Athos across the face.
“What the…!” Athos brought his hand up to his face and moved his jaw around, as if readjusting it.
“WHAT was that yesterday?!” Aramis had placed his face within a hair’s distance from the face of Athos. In the cold air of the breaking dawn, he seemed to be exhaling smoke out of his nostrils.
“Which part are you referring to?” Athos seemed genuinely confused in the wake of the slap.
“Well, there is a valid statement! Which part am I referring to? Which indeed? There was so much INSANITY perpetrated by you in such a short span of time! And so very little regard for life, in particular yours, again… I…” Aramis seemed to momentarily lose his train of thought. “Between the… being there! The corpses? And the being shot at? And the napkin!?! And … I don’t know how I do not just strangle you in your sleep myself!”
“But…”
“No! I’m speaking!” Aramis grabbed his friend by the shoulder and shook him. “What have you told him about yourself that you have not told me?!”
“What?” Athos opened his eyes even wider and gave Aramis such a look of desperate confusion that the younger man allowed his arms to drop and he took a conciliatory step backwards.
“You said that Porthos and I were not privy to your family secrets the way that d’Artagnan was. He obviously knows about your past. And I do not.”
“I…” Athos was still trying to wrap his mind around the conversation. “Are you… angry because … you’re jealous again?”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“You keep threatening me with these sweet promises of death, but I still don’t find it in myself to believe you,” Athos smirked.
“Why would you confide in him something that you have not confided in me after all these years?” Aramis felt he was on the verge of tears.
“It doesn’t matter, Aramis, really,” Athos tried to protest, but it was evident his friend was having none of it. He reached out and tried to put his hand of Aramis’ shoulder, only to have it angrily slapped away. “It doesn’t mean what you think it means! He was just… bright eyed and bushy tailed and needed a fable with a nice moralistic twist in the end. And I gave him one! That’s all!”
“What fable?” Aramis really felt like he was choking back tears of frustration. He also suspected that the next blow to the face of Athos might involve his closed fist.
“Please… don’t ask me this,” Athos said quietly and in such a way that gave Aramis some pause. “I don’t want the ghosts from the past to be between us. I don’t want that.” There was such a tone of supplication to that last phrase, that Aramis felt his fists unclenching. “That’s not what we are.” Athos pleaded again with his eyes and took a step forward.
“And what are we?” Aramis asked, coldly.
“We… love each other,” Athos whispered, his words almost getting drowned out by the echo of the whispering of the barley around them as it was bowed by the wind.
“And if I insist on knowing?” Aramis asked, bringing his face close again and fixing his gaze on his friend’s eyes.
“I’ll do whatever you wish, but I’m begging you to let it go,” Athos replied.
“Whatever it is you did, it will not change the way I feel about you,” Aramis said softly, putting his arms around his friend’s waist, and pulling him close.
“You can’t possibly know that,” Athos whispered and pulled Aramis in for a kiss. They let their lips linger for a few moments, savoring the sensation that has eluded them ever since the beginning of the campaign. “My God,” Athos said under his breath, “It’s really been too long since I’ve done that.”
“We need to get Porthos out of our tent,” Aramis replied, pragmatically, followed by a brief outburst of laughter which lit up his eyes.
“Aramis, you’re a genius! Now that d’Artagnan is a musketeer, he’ll have to move his equipment over to our side of the camp. We should suggest that he shack up with Porthos!”
“You’re truly outrageously out of your mind,” Aramis laughed again. “Even though that idea is quite… brilliant… are you actually suggesting that we make love IN CAMP?”
“No, you’re right,” Athos furrowed his brow. “And you’re always right: we should make love right here, right now. Before they sound the reveille.”
Aramis jokingly pushed Athos away, feigning a shocked expression on his face.
“Sir! That is not why I brought you here!”
“I know. You brought me here to hit me,” Athos winked at him and pulled him down into the barley. Aramis put up a mock struggle as they rolled around in the morning dew, struggling for supremacy.
“I’m going to let you win,” Aramis declared slackening his hold.
“Because you feel so bad about hitting me or because you secretly agree that what happened at the bastion yesterday was pure military genius?” Athos inquired while nibbling on his friend’s neck.
“Because last time, I was on top,” Aramis replied in a deadpan fashion.
Athos lifted his face from his activity of casually snacking on his friend’s neck and, with a suddenly sober expression, he said, “Have you ever thought about what might happen if Porthos… found out about us?”
“Of course I have, you fool,” Aramis replied with faked annoyance, “I think about it all the time! Although, honestly, he’s not the one I’m really worried about. It would be far worse for me if d’Artagnan found out.”
“I’m dying to hear the reason for this.”
“Because,” Aramis said, his eyes getting clouded over, “I do not want him to know this was ever an option.”
Athos sat up at that, and started to methodically remove pieces of vegetation off his clothes. He avoided his friend’s gaze for a few moments, and when he finally lifted his eyes, while playing with a sprig of barley, he mumbled, “Hypocrite. You blushed head to toe yesterday at the mere mention of the seamstress in Tours.”
Aramis sighed. He could play chess enough to know that they were at stalemate again. He reached out and removed a stray strand of grass off of the unfastened doublet of Athos.
“Just… tell me again that I’m imagining things and come back over here before they sound the reveille,” he forced a nonchalant smile.
“You are imagining things. He’s not my type.” Athos cocked his head to the side as he said that, in a fashion that always reminded Aramis of a hunting hound listening for where the prey will fall. Aramis could not tell from his friend’s expression whether or not to be reassured by this statement, but he was getting tired of fighting. And, after all, it had been such a long while since the last time they allowed themselves to lose control, and time was constantly running out. He just let his legs fall ajar as a silent invitation and sank back onto his bed of barley.
At the sound of the reveille, Porthos shot up and hit the top of the tent with his head. “Ow,” he delivered an angry punch to the piece of offensive makeshift shelter, while he tried to adjust his eyes to the insufficient light. He opened the tent and squinted at the early morning glow, scanning the camp for Mousqueton, or food, or whatever would come his way first. As it happened, what came his way first was d’Artagnan, who was standing there, leaning against their tent.
“Morning,” Porthos mumbled. “Sleep well?”
“Not at all,” the young man confessed. “I was far too excited from the events of yesterday to sleep. Not to mention, the events to come.”
“Hey,” Porthos started again, looking around. “What happened to the other two? They were not in the tent when I woke up.”
“Oh, you know,” d’Artagnan signed in a resigned way, “Probably finally wondered off into one of those abandoned fields nearby.” He gave a noncommittal shrug.
“To what end?” Porthos asked incredulously.
“To… tumble in the barley, I venture?” d’Artagnan smirked and added, “Whom do they think they’re fooling with their constant lovers’ quarrels, anyways?”
“Not me, by God!” Porthos laughed. “I cannot wait to get out of that tent, and let me tell you, as soon as possible, because you can cut the tension in there with a sword!”
“Truly, everyone will be better off when they just get on with it and not take their frustrations out on everything in sight!”
“Poor Grimaud!”
The two friends joined each other in a fit of raucous laughter, which they had to temper eventually at the sight of another regiment marching by.
“Well, in either case,” Porthos said suddenly, “Aramis sure is pretty.”
“Porthos!” d’Artagnan exclaimed, breaking out into more laughter.
“What? I’m just sayin….” Porthos blushed and trailed off.
“If Aramis were here, he would tell you himself, my friend: thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s ass, or the ass of thy neighbor’s lover, as it were!”
“Shhh, be quiet! Here they come.”
“Look normal.”
“Riiiiiight.”
“Good morning, my friends!” d’Artagnan jovially greeted Athos and Aramis as they materialized out of the morning fog.
“Out for a stroll?” inquired Porthos, twirling his moustache in a vaguely complacent way.
“Reconnaissance,” Aramis answered simply.
“And?” d’Artagnan asked, chewing his lip and giving Aramis a sheepish look.
“I am going to reconnoiter about breakfast now,” the latter replied and walked off.
“I’m going to supervise,” Porthos helpfully suggested and sauntered off after him, having given d’Artagnan another self-satisfied wink.
Athos remained, chewing on a strand of barley, silently.
“So, what,” d’Artagnan began with a small snicker, “is regular hay no longer good enough for your aristocratic tastes?”
“Please, don’t speak,” Athos responded, laconically.
“Never,” confirmed d’Artagnan, helpfully brushing the remnants of the vegetation off his friend’s doublet. Athos gave the young man a grateful look and a barely perceptible shadow of a smile and disappeared into the tent.