Fic: It’s Not What You Think
It's not what you think. Ok, yes it is: It's Musketeer Slash!
Rated: PG, PG-13 if you're uptight
This copyright is mine (2010). I am not infringing Dumas' rights because they've expired with him.
Paring: Athos/Aramis
Summary: Takes place immediately before d'Artagnan's arrival on the scene, i.e. the night Athos was wounded in that bar brawl.
It’s Not What You Think
As soon as he was sure that he had lost the guards, Aramis doubled back to the tavern. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears. His feet seemed to have grown wings, barely touching the ground, as all of Paris flew past him in the night. The memories of the past hour flashed through his mind like daggers in the night. He saw the assailant’s blade then, and heard the sharp intake of air as Athos went down. Athos went down… Athos was dead. He felt a wave of nausea overwhelm him, forcing him to slow down to a more manageable pace. Athos was dead; and he had left him there, lying in the middle of the street. The taste of blood in his mouth made Aramis realize that he had bitten right through his own lip.
Sighting the tavern, he stopped completely. In the distance, he could just make out the outlines of what were surely his former comrades, lying prone on the cobblestones. His insides revolted against him, but he forced his leaden legs to budge, and began what seemed like the eternal walk towards the corpses. He was sorry that he had the idea to split up from Porthos after all: it would appear he needed someone to carry him.
His eyes quickly surveyed the carnage, and, shockingly, not finding the man he was seeking, he began to turn the other bodies around. Empty eyes looked past him at the darkened sky above. Athos was not among the dead.
More running. This time, without any seeming prodding from his brain, his feet took him directly to the Rue Ferou. “He might still be dead,” Aramis reckoned. “A corpse is just as easy to remove as the living thing. Easier even! Or… even had he lived, who’s to say he was not also imprisoned? My God! That sword had struck home, I had seen it with my own eyes!” Aramis had slowed down again to catch his breath and make sure he wasn’t being followed. A solitary carriage was heard on the next street, and then all was silent again. And then the wave of guilt had again overwhelmed him as he felt the nausea escalate like a wave from the pit of his stomach. “I did not want him to die, God. That was not what I had prayed for when I asked to be delivered from temptation….”
Unwittingly, another religious thought had crossed his mind now, “Let there be light!” He looked up at the window on the top floor, holding his breath. “Fiat lux! Damn it! Damn it all to Hell!” But something did flicker in the apartment upstairs. It was far too dim and far too brief, but gave Aramis sufficient motivation to mount the stairs and knock on the door of the residence of Athos. After a long pause, he knocked again, louder this time, using the hilt of his dagger as the pummel instead of his fist. “I am going insane,” it occurred to him, “and I am about to impale my head on this dagger if the door does not open.”
But open it eventually did. The familiarly reticent figure of Grimaud had materialized in the doorway, and before the poor chap had the opportunity to mime any of his usual greetings, Aramis had pushed his way past him and headed directly for the bedroom.
There he was…. right there…. the mane of dark, unruly hair, spilled over his pillow, with his face as pale as the sheets themselves. Yet, even in this near-death state, Aramis still could not resist his pull. So he approached, and leaning gingerly over, lowered his face close enough to Athos’ face so that only the span of an imaginary kiss separated them. Aramis felt his friend’s shallow breath gingerly brush past his lips and fly off into the darkness. Alive, then.
Aramis was keenly aware of how his head spun and his knees buckled, and he stretched out his arms to steady himself against his friend’s bed, when he felt the presence at his back. Without feeling the need to turn around, he asked “Did you bring him here yourself?” Grimaud nodded behind him. “And you dressed his wounds?” Another nod. “And…” this time Aramis hesitated, “Will he… live?” He turned to face the manservant, who, despite being of a very young age, was the only person in the world whom Aramis trusted at this moment more than he trusted himself. Grimaud gave a shrug and pointed upward to indicate the Heavens. With that, Grimaud had turned to leave the room, and Aramis caught a protestation inside his own throat, yet choked it down. The bedroom door closed behind him and he was left in the dark to contemplate the features of the greatest temptation that God had ever sent him.
He may have been sitting there for a few minutes or a few hours, for all time had become meaningless to him. He knew that he would be damned from the first time Athos had stretched out his hand to him and said, “Join us.” He said, “You don’t have to be alone.” It wasn’t much, but it was everything that Aramis had been willing to damn his eternal soul for. Leave the priesthood? Become a musketeer? It was pure insanity, he knew it, and yet… For the curve of those lips, for the privilege of witnessing that regal sneer, for the feel of that hand on his back, he would leave the only life he has ever known. He would burn for it.
“I thought you were dead,” he whispered in the dark. “And I thought it was all my fault because I had caused it by wishing that things were…. different.” Athos had not stirred. His breath was just as shallow and just as steady as before. “I would sooner give up all hope of ever touching you again, if it means you get to live,” Aramis whispered and let out a resigned sigh. He hung his head and propped it up with his hands. It may have been dawning, or else he was starting to hallucinate from the lack of sleep. He forced himself to stand up and move to the window.
“Why the Devil would I want to live if that meant not getting touched by you?” came a very weak but incredibly familiar voice from the bed.
Aramis had spun around. The day must truly have been dawning because the light from the window cast a glow over the convalescent man’s face and lit up his eyes with a sinister sparkle. His eyes… he was awake… Aramis felt as if his friend’s eyes were looking right into the darkest corners of his soul and he felt his entire face flush as if caught on fire. “I…” he stammered, “I thought you were dead.”
“Apology accepted,” said Athos, with a grimace on his face that indicated he was in a world of pain. Aramis rushed back over to his side.
“We escaped the guards,” he began while fussing with the bandages automatically to make sure his friend wasn’t bleeding, “And I had run back to the tavern, but you weren’t there. I thought you were dead. I was beside myself with worry. I wanted to die.” Aramis stopped his ramblings with a mental slap to his own face. “You must be very badly hurt. I will leave.” He stood up and turned away.
“And who is going to nurse me back to health if you go?” Athos asked, with the same gentle mockery in his voice.
“Grimaud?” Aramis suggested, again mentally kicking himself for being so insipid.
“He will do in a pinch, but he is no where near as appealing to look at,” Athos grinned and closed his yes, as if that last pleasantry has taken his final resources out of him.
“Athos, I…” Aramis had no idea what he was actually going to say. “It’s not what you think.”
“No?” Athos opened his eyes again.
“It’s… I am in love with you.” Aramis sat down in the chair by the window as if the wind had been knocked out of him by the force of his own words.
“That was what I thought.”
“Oh…”
“And since I might still die, I’d hate to have to leave you now without a single kiss after all this time.”
“Oh…”
“But if you insist,” Athos closed his eyes again and crossed his hands across his chest. Then he heard his friend’s cool and silky voice, sounding closer and closer to his ear with every meticulously uttered word.
“You… are…. insane,” Aramis whispered, and without another thought, he pressed his trembling lips to the smiling lips of Athos. It was only a moment in time, but it was the moment Aramis would have burned for. “Don’t die,” he added, when their lips finally separated and he was able to breathe again. “I’ll be back later tonight, so you should get some rest,” he mentioned casually by way of an explanation for their physical separation. “In the meantime, I have a handkerchief I need to return.”